ma 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


MAYO. 


SELECTIONS 

FROM 

THE    WRITINGS    OF 

MRS.  SAEAH  C.  EDGAHTON  .MAYO 

*~~-_ 

WITH    A    MEMOIR, 

BY   HER    HUSBAND. 


1  The  good,  the  loved,  are  with  us  though  they  die ; 
We  think  of  them  as  angels  in  the  sky ; 
But  the  deep  firmament  divides  us  not, 
They  're  with  us  in  the  densest  crowd  and  in  the  loneliest  apot. 

'  With  voice,  and  eye,  and  with  the  thrilling  smile, 
They  answer  not  as  they  were  wont  erewhile ; 
But  when  deep  yearnings  all  our  spirits  more, 
Their  spirits  softly  whisper  us,  responsively,  '  We  love !' " 

S.  C.  E.  M. 


BOSTON: 

TOMPKINS,  38    CORNHILL. 
1849. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1349, 

BY    A.    TOMPKINS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED   BY 

HOBART   &   ROBBINS; 

MEW    ENGLAND   TYPE  AND   STEREOTYPE   FOUNDIRY. 


PREFACE 


THIS  book  has  been  arranged  in  obedience  to  the  request 
of  the  numerous  personal  friends  of  Mrs.  MAYO,  and  of  the 
Religious  Denomination  to  which  she  belonged.  The  only 
merit  claimed  for  it  is,  that  it  presents  a  picture  of  a  woman 
who  truly  lived  the  spiritual  life  in  all  the  relations  of  human 
existence,  and  who  only  wrote  that  she  might  express  that 
love  for  nature,  man,  and  God,  which  filled  her  own  heart. 

I  have  prepared  the  memoir  for  those  who  knew  her. 
They  will  understand  that  I  could  have  written  it  only  as  it 
is,  and  will  pardon  any  deficiencies  in  the  execution  of  a  work 
finished  as  in  the  presence  of  her  whose  absence  has  only 
chastened  and  deepened  the  love  which  has  been  my  life  upon 
earth. 

The  selections  have  been  made  with  a  view  to  present  the 
best  results  of  her  intellectual  pursuits.  Many  will  doubtless 
be  disappointed  that  favorite  pieces  are  omitted ;  but  such  per 
sons  will  recollect  that,  from  the  numerous  articles  she  wrote, 
but  a  small  proportion  could  be  chosen ;  and  that  the  present 
form  of  publication  demands  an  exercise  of  critical  judgment 
in  the  arrangement  which  is  not  expected  in  the  pages  of  a 
popular  magazine.  I  have  selected  those  productions  which 
appear  to  me  to  give  the  fairest  illustration  of  her  power  in  its 
different  spheres  of  manifestation,  anxious  above  all  things  to 
let  nothing  appear  which  she  would  not  wish  to  see  in  such  a 
collection. 

AQC^Ci? 

':2-C2%_. ••vj?*-*  f 

ENGLISH 


IV  PREFACE. 

To  friends  who  have  generously  aided  me  by  furnishing 
materials  for  the  preparation  of  the  memoir,  I  am  very  grate 
ful.  I  cannot  express  my  sense  of  their  constant  kindness  to 
me  shown  in  many  ways.  Their  sympathy  has  done  much 
for  me  during  the  few  past  months.  May  that  golden  chain 
which  binds  us  together  never  be  severed,  till  we  are  per 
mitted,  with  purified  affections,  and  stronger  hands,  to  love 
and  work  together  above. 

A.  D.  M. 

GLOUCESTER,  APRIL  15,  1849. 


CONTENTS 


PAOK 

MEMOIR 9 

POETICAL  SELECTIONS. 

Tokens, 127 

To  my  Sisters, 127 

The  Crown  of  Life, 128 

The  Good  Shepherd, 129 

"  The  Pure  in  Heart  see  God," 130 

The  Temptation  in  the  Wilderness, 131 

Bow  Brook, 132 

Types  of  Heaven,        ........  134 

The  Last  Supper, 136 

Song,         ..........  138 

A  Sketch  from  Life, 139 

The  Spirit's  Change, 141 

Lines  written  at  a  Waterfall, 142 

The  Baptism, 142 

The  Kingdom  above, 143 

The  Voice  of  the  Dying, 144 

The  Mountain  Girl, 145 

The  Wood-path, 149 

The  Recall, 150 

Devotional  Love,         ........  151 

To  a  Star, 152 

Thou  'rt  like  thy  Mother,  Child, 154 

Love  at  the  Grave,      ........  155 

The  Woodland  Retreat, 156 

Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  Mrs.  J.  H.  Scott,    ....  157 

A  Prayer  at  Night, 159 

Filial  Love, 160 

My  Father,         . 162 

1* 


Yl  CONTENTS. 

Social  Desires, 163 

The  Mission  of  Christ, 164 

Reveries, 165 

The  Redeemed, 166 

The  Last  Lay, 168 

Scene  in  a  Graveyard,         .        .        .         .        .         .         .171 

Simplicity, 177 

Annie, 178 

Autumn  Musings,        ........  179 

Lizzy, 180 

Grove  Worshippings,           .......  181 

The  Supremacy  of  God 183 

Luther, 186 

The  Answered  Prayer,        . 187 

Ecclesiastes,  ix.  10., 189 

Song, 191 

The  New  Home, 191 

Rosabelle, 193 

To  the  Morning  Wind, 194 

Voice  to  a  Pilgrim,      ........  195 

"Charlotte," 196 

The  Retrospect, 197 

The  Ferry, .         .         .200 

Memory's  Picture-gallery,            .        .         .        .        .  201 

The  Beggar's  Death  Scene, 203 

The  Railroad  Flower, 205 

Sounds  of  Summer,     ........  206 

Leila  Grey, 207 

Udollo, 208 

The  Lord  de  Beaumonaire,  .         .        .         .        .         .213 

The  Old  Mill, 215 

The  Church  Bell 217 

Visions, 218 

The  Pervading  God, 219 

St.  Valentine's  Eve, 220 

Eda, 223 

A  Morning  Landscape,        .        .        .         .                 .         .  224 

Nora, 225 

Devotion, 228 

Contemplation,    .........  229 

The  Adventure, 229 

The  Shadow  Child, 332 


CONTENTS.  VII 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The  Revenge  of  the  Flowers, 234 

The  Youth  and  the  Mill  Stream, 236 

To  the  Estranged, 238 

Spring's  Oracle,  or  the  Cuckoo, 238 

Vineta, 239 

The  Minstrel's  Curse, 240 

The  Grave  of  the  Persian  Poet, 242 

The  Tomb  and  the  Rose, 244 

The  Prisoner  of  War, 244 

The  Old  Vagabond,     .         .     J 245 

The  Wreath, 247 

The  Nun, 248 

To  Death, 248 

To  the  Child  of  a  Poet,       . 250 


PROSE  SELECTIONS. 

Annette  Lee,      .........  251 

The  Martyr, .259 

Eleonora,  the  Shakeress,     .......  262 

The  Rustic  Wife, 287 

The  Gossipings  of  Idle  Hours,     ......  304 

Hour  First, 304 

Hour  Second,  ........  308 

Hour  Third, 310 

Hour  Fourth, 310 

Hour  Fifth,      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .312 

Hour  Sixth, 313 

Hour  Seventh, 316 

Hour  Eighth, .         .319 

Hour  Ninth, 328 

Hour  Tenth, 330 

Hour  Eleventh, 332 

Hour  Twelfth, 335 

Hour  Thirteenth, 336 

Hour  Fourteenth, 336 

Hour  Fifteenth, 340 

Hour  Sixteenth, 343 

Hour  Seventeenth,    .......  346 

Hour  Eighteenth, 351 


Vtti  CONTENTS. 

Hour  Nineteenth, 353. 

Hour  Twentieth, 355 

Hour  Twenty-first, 357 

Debby  Lincoln,  ........  359 

The  Deformed  Boy, 379 

LydiaVernon, 393 

Esther,  ...  410 


MEMOIR. 


I  HAVE  been  requested  by  many,  whose  opinion  I  respect 
highly,  to  write  an  account  of  the  lifpT  of  my  departed  com 
panion.  It  is  a  work  to  which  I  am  attracted,  but  from  which 
I  would  gladly  be  relieved.  With  a  chastened  joy  do  I  engage 
in  it,  for  it  leads  me  back  into  the  past  to  an  almost  earthly 
intercourse  with  one  who  has  done  more  for  my  soul  than  all 
others ;  yet  how  can  I  transfer  that  image  of  quiet  loveliness 
in  my  mind  to  pages  for  others  to  read,  or  fix  in  definite 
words  those  varying  moods  of  thought  and  feeling,  and  the 
graceful  blending  of  light  and  shadow  which  gave  expression 
to  her  character  ?  It  is  almost  sacrilegious  to  demand  of  us  a 
minute  description  of  those  we  love  best ;  for  perfect  affection 
calls  out  a  thousand  delicate  emotions  in  the  spirit  of  the 
beloved  one,  which  a  single  critical  glance  scares  away.  The 
soul  will  not  willingly  sit  for  its  portrait ;  but  punishes  the 
artist,  who  would  expose  its  beauties  to  the  world,  by  giving 
him  back  a  somewhat  distorted  expression  of  itself. 

This  difficulty,  which  attends  every  attempt  to  describe 
human  character,  is  greatly  increased,  in  the  present  instance, 
by  the  want  of  striking  events  in  the  life  of  the  subject  of  this 
memoir.  Until  the  time  of  her  marriage  with  me,  she  lived 
in  the  most  quiet  of  country  villages,  and  in  a  home  atmos 
phere  of  perfect  peace.  The  last  two  years  of  her  life  were 
hardly  an  exception  to  this,  for  although  brought  more  into 
daily  contact- with  the  world,  she  yet  lived  in  her  own  house 
and  the  love  of  those  nearest  her.  An  unconquerable  sensi 
tiveness  and  diffidence  prevented  her  from  the  complete  expres 
sion  of  herself  in  society ;  so  that  many  of  those  who  saw  her 


10  MEMOIH. 

every  day,  and  loved  her  for  what  they  saw,  knew  little  of  her 
inner  life.  Her  character  was  built  up  year  by  year  without 
violent  outward  experiences.  The  ordinary  events  of  existence 
were  incidents  sufficiently  powerful  for  the  discipline  of  a  spirit 
so  apprehensive  as  hers.  These,  with  the  books  she  read,  and 
her  friends,  complete  the  part  of  her  life  which  turned  earth 
ward; —  the  temporary  scaffolding,  within  which  arose  a  spir 
itual  temple,  simple  and  beautiful  in  its  proportions,  wherein 
were  always  sounding  hymns  to  the  Father  in  heaven. 

No  one  can  require  me  to  do  justice  to  the  worth  of  such 
an  one ;  and  this  brief  sketch  is  not  written  for  the  world's 
criticism.  I  will  tell  a  few  of  the  things  I  saw  in  her,  and 
select  from  her  correspondence  a  few  characteristic  passages. 
These,  woven  together,  will  form  a  picture  which  may  suggest 
a  few  features  of  the  original,  to  those  who  knew  her.  I  do 
not  pretend  to  estimate  her  nature ;  —  character  cannot  be 
estimated.  The  most  worthless  creature  is  greater  and  better 
than  the  critical  eye  can  detect ;  and  virtue  and  beauty  can 
be  felt  only  by  him  who  has  opened  his  heart  wide  enough  to 
feel  their  influence.  I  doubt  not  she  had  many  imperfections, 
for  she  was  human ;  but  with  those  we  have  nothing  to  do ; 
—  it  is  by  imitating  the  excellences  of  the  good,  not  by  avoid 
ing  their  errors,  that  we  reach  heaven.  I  shall  write  of  her 
out  of  my  heart ;  for  the  affections  are  the  only  faithful  report 
ers  of  the  secrets  of  character.  If  the  picture  I  present  does 
not  correspond  to  that  in  the  mind  of  any  one  of  her  friends, 
he  may  use  it  as  far  as  it  is  true  for  him ;  —  one  may  have 
seen  things  in  her  nature  which  were  hidden  from  the  other. 
If  a  stranger,  who  first  learns  from  these  pages  that  such  a 
being  existed,  shall  be  attracted  by  anything  in  her  example 
to  the  more  excellent  beauty  of  holiness,  let  him  thank  God 
that  I  have  written.  If  it  is  nothing  to  him,  let  him  not  say 
it  is  worthless ;  for  there  are  spirits  all  the  way  from  sin  to 
holiness,  and  a  word  may  be  like  a  voice  from  heaven  to  one, 
which  is  inaudible  to  another. 

Sarah  Carter  Edgarton  was  born  in  Shirley  Village,  Mid 
dlesex  Co.,  Mass.,  March  17,  1819.  She  was  the  tenth  of  a 
family  of  fifteen  children,  four  of  whom  had  died  in  infancy. 


MEMOIR.  11 

Her  father  was  extensively  engaged  in  manufacturing  pursuits, 
and  was  a  man  of  great  generosity  and  simplicity  of  character, 
and  universally  prized  by  his  townsmen  for  his  strong  judg 
ment,  no  less  than  his  liberality  of  sentiment  and  hospitable 
manners.  His  partner,  a  second  wife  and  mother  of  eleven 
children,  two  of  which  died  in  infancy,  was  a  woman  of  that 
unconscious  worth  which  requires  no  praise. 

For  many  years  after  the  birth  of  Sarah,  the  family  lived 
together  in  a  large  mansion  in  the  most  beautiful  part  of  the 
village.  No  situation  could  be  more  favorable,  in  many  respects, 
to  the  development  of  her  nature  than  this  ;  for  although  her 
native  village  was  not  free  from  the  vices  which  always  appear 
among  a  promiscuous  manufacturing  population,  yet  the  atmos 
phere  of  the  household  was  a  charm  against  moral  infection. 
The  character  of  the  mother  pervaded  all  its  arrangements, 
and  filled  it  with  a  quiet  and  unostentatious  spirit  of  goodness, 
which  preserved  it  untainted  from  the  contagion  around. 
Never  have  I  seen  a  house  in  which  that  union,  so  happily 
styled,  by  a  writer  of  our  time,  the  "  organic  unity  of  the  fam 
ily,"  was  so  apparent.  A  perfect  fusion  of  sentiment  in  a 
generous  regard  for  each  other,  united  with  the  strongest 
development  of  individual  excellence,  was  there  apparent.  In 
this  admirable  school  was  she  permitted  to  spend  a  great  por 
tion  of  her  life  ;  for,  until  a  recent  period,  the  family  circle  has 
only  widened  by  the  marriage  of  its  inmates  ;  —  all  the  mar 
ried  sons  and  their  families  living  near  their  father's  house. 
To  this  providential  domestic  influence  must  we  ascribe  much 
of  the  spiritual  beauty  that,  with  advancing  years,  seemed 
rather  to  have  accompanied,  than  to  have  been  acquired  by, 
the  subject  of  our  memoir. 

Another  influence,  to  which  can  be  traced  much  of  the  purity 
and  grace  of  her  character,  was  the  fine  natural  scenery  of  her 
native  place.  We  find  constant  allusions  to  it  in  her  writings, 
and  one  who  knew  her  deeply  could  not  fail  to  detect  it  in  the 
simplicity  of  her  manners  and  the  freshness  of  her  conversa 
tion.  The  village  of  Shirley  is  situated  in  a  beautiful  valley, 
bounded  on  two  sides  by  hills,  on  a  third  by  woods,  rising 
gradually  to  a  considerable  elevation,  and  upon  the  fourth 


12  MEMOIR. 

open  to  an  extensive  plain  which,  again  swelling  upward,  is 
lost  in  the  high  and  fertile  lands  of  Groton,  Littleton,  and  Har 
vard.  It  is  not  large,  and,  in  spite  of  its  railroad  and  half  a 
dozen  factories,  the  most  quiet  of  country  places.  But  at  the 
time  of  which  we  write  it  was  even  more  secluded  than  now, 
being  situated  about  forty  miles  from  Boston,  and  away  from 
the  larger  roads  by  which  the  travelling  public  reached  that 
city.  Among  the  woods  of  which  we  have  spoken  are  several 
large  sheets  of  water,  fed  by  unfailing  springs,  from  which  the 
brooks  rise  which  are  the  source  of  wealth  to  the  village,  as 
well  as  a  beautiful  feature  in  its  landscape.  These  all  termi 
nate  at  the  upper  extremity  of  the  place  in  one  beautiful 
stream,  Bow  Brook,  which  flows  through  the  valley,  and 
after  forming  several  mill-ponds  of  considerable  size,  passes 
off  through  green  meadows  into  the  Nashua.  The  factories 
are  picturesquely  situated  upon  its  banks,  at  intervals  suffi 
ciently  distant.  Upon  the  southern  side  an  elevated  street 
runs  parallel  with  the  brook,  at  one  extremity  leading  away  to 
a  village  of  Shakers  and  the  town  of  Harvard,  and  at  the 
other  branching  off  into  several  ways,  now  but  little  travelled, 
winding  through  the  woods."  Upon  the  northern  side  of  the 
village,  the  road  comes  down  from  the  central  part  of  the  town, 
between  hills,  and  runs  parallel  with  the  brook  out  into  the 
plain.  A  short  street,  descending  the  hill,  and  passing  over  a 
bridge,  connects  the  two  we  have  already  named.  Upon  the 
former  of  these,  not  far  from  the  place  where  it  branches  away 
into  the  woods,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  which  forms  the  south 
ern  boundary  of  the  village,  and  overlooking  the  most  beau 
tiful  portion  of  Bow  Brook,  stands  the  family  mansion.  It  is 
a  plain  country  house,  with  a  plat  of  grass  before  it.  Behind 
is  the  bank,  rapidly  descending  to  the  brook.  Beyond  is  a 
cottage,  at  a  later  period  occupied  by  the  family,  and  the  "  old 
red  mill"  described  in  a  poem  in  this  volume.  From  the 
pond  above,  the  water  flows  over  a  dam  in  a  broad  cascade, 
then  forms  a  channel  and  runs  down  the  valley,  bordered  in 
some  places  by  alders,  in  others  overshadowed  by  tall  graceful 
elms,  and  spanned  by  a  long  narrow  bridge  of  rough  timbers 
and  boards.  It  dashes,  under  this,  then  becomes  calm  and 


MEMOIR.  13 

widens  again  to  another  pond.  The  hill  on  the  north  over 
hangs  it.  These  hills,  on  the  north  and  south  of  the  village, 
are  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  portions  of  the  landscape.  They 
rise  gracefully,  being  dotted  with  apple  trees,  and  green  at  the 
earliest  time  of  vegetation.  The  whole  valley,  in  summer,  is 
a  mass  of  foliage  and  grass  and  water,  full  of  flowers  and  sing 
ing  birds,  while  the  woods  beyond,  intersected  by  grass-grown 
\  paths  and  quiet  roads,  form  an  exquisite  background.  To  the 
east  the  eye  wanders  out  upon  the  plain,  interspersed  with 
pine  woods,  and  rests  at  last  upon  the  high  hills  rising  with 
their  cultivated  sides  up  to  the  horizon.  The  dwellings  are 
placed  at  moderate  intervals,  surrounded  with  gardens  in  usual 
country  style.  The  old  church  and  school-house,  at  the  east 
ern  extremity  of  the  upper  street,  were  then,  beside  the  facto 
ries,  the  most  conspicuous  buildings  among  them. 

Here  was  Sarah  born,  and  here  she  spent  twenty-seven 
years  of  her  life,  surrounded  by  the  loveliness  of  nature,  and 
living  in  a  social  atmosphere  of  rare  purity.  The  peace  of 
the  outer  and  inner  world  passed  into  her  soul,  and  her  life 
thus  became  a  quiet  development  into  successive  stages  of 
simple  grace  and  goodness. 

Of  her  life  till  she  was  17  years  of  age,  I  have  been  able  to 
collect  little  that  would  be  appropriate  for  a  memoir.  With 
but  a  few  months'  exception,  she  lived  at  home,  engaged  in  the 
usual  routine  of  school  and  domestic  duties.  The  cares  of  her 
father's  numerous  family  furnished  constant  employment  for 
her  mother,  her  two  elder  sisters  and  herself;  thus  giving  her 
the  discipline  of  household  duties,  so  essential  to  the  complete 
ness  of  the  female  character.  She  always  retained  her  domes 
tic  habits,  and  felt  that  she  owed  much  to  them.  I  have  often 
heard  her  say  that  her  best  thoughts  and  highest  periods  of 
religious  enjoyment  came  to  her  while  engaged  in  these  em 
ployments. 

In  the  description  of  her  friends  we  recognize  the  same 
nature  in  childhood  that  afterwards  shone  out  so  beautifully  in 
her  womanhood.  Her  manners  were  shy,  and  her  tempera 
ment  sensitive.  She  could  not  read  aloud  at  school  without 
shrinking  at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice ;  and  on  those  awful 
2 


14  MEMOIR. 

times  of  trial  for  children,  "  examination-days,"  usually  dis 
appointed  the  teacher  and  "  committee,"  by  failing  in  the 
midst  of  a  sentence,  and  sitting  down  in  tears.  Her  diffidence 
in  society  was  extreme,  and  she  was  so  sensitive  to  the  appro 
bation  of  those  she  loved,  that,  while  a  mere  child,  the  slightest 
rebuke  would  distress  her  for  a  whole  day.  Indeed,  till  the 
day  of  her  death,  an  unkind  word  or  suspicion  always  made 
her  miserable,  though  it  could  not  change  her  deliberate  moral 
convictions.  Beneath  this  yielding  exterior  lay  concealed  a 
strength  of  will  adequate  to  any  emergency ;  and  many  a  duty, 
which  more  confident  natures  would  cheerfully  perform  in  the 
face  of  opposition,  was  done  by  her  firmly,  but  with  all  the 
spiritual  agonies  of  martyrdom.  Thus,  unfitted  in  her  child 
hood  for  gay  companions  or  noisy  amusements,  she  clung  to 
the  few  she  knew  and  best  loved  for  protection.  Most  of  her 
time  was  passed  with  her  mother  and  sisters ;  for  she  shrunk 
instinctively  from  the  rudeness  of  many  of  her  school-mates, 
and  had  at  no  time  more  than  one  or  two  familiar  friends 
among  them. 

Yet  this  diffidence  only  revealed  more  beautifully  the  sweet 
ness  of  her  temper,  being  one  of  the  surest  indications  of  a 
superior  nature.  She  was  universally  beloved  in  the  village, 
and  many  whom  she  feared  the  most,  loved  her  the  best.  Her 
excellence  was  acknowledged  without  hesitation  and  without 
jealousy.  She  was  the  best  scholar  at  school,  although  her 
heart  always  failed  her  when  required  to  exhibit  her  acquisi 
tions.  Geography  and  the  natural  sciences  were  her  favorite 
studies,  and  among  these  she  was  most  interested  by  Astron 
omy  and  Botany.  She  also  read  poetry  with  great  taste  and 
feeling. 

As  she  grew  up,  a  love  for  nature  grew  with  her.  She  had 
a  passionate  fondness  for  flowers  and  animals  of  all  kinds,  and 
the  earliest  verses  I  have  seen  of  hers  were  addressed  to  a 
favorite  dog.  She  was  a  part  of  nature,  rather  than  an  admirer 
of  it,  and  her  spirit  was  bright  or  shadowy  as  the  landscape 
about  her  varied  in  expression.  Indeed,  nature  always  ad 
dressed  itself  more  to  her  inner  than  outer  sense ;  —  the  surest 
indication  that  she  possessed  the  poetic  faculty.  The  man  of 


MEMOIR.  15 

taste  can  admire  the  glories  of  creation,  but  he  stands  outside 
the  show ;  —  the  poet  lives  within  nature,  and  feels  through 
his  whole  being  the  throbbing  of  her  great  heart,  and  looks 
out  from  thence  upon  the  world  and  humanity. 

Her  love  for  a  quiet  life  was  of  course  developed  with  these 
faculties.  The  quarrels  of  her  companions  disturbed  her, 
though  she  had  little  courage  to  assume  the  office  of  peace 
maker,  and  the  least  confusion  drove  her  to  the  shelter  of  the 
Domestic  circle  or  to  her  own  thoughts. 

Her  education  was  such  as  she  could  obtain  from  the  district 
school  of  the  village.  This,  with  the  exception  of  one  term 
of  fourteen  weeks  spent  at  an  academy  in  Westford,  comprised 
all  her  outward  advantages.  But  a  nature  like  hers  could  not 
rest  unemployed.  Every  book  in  her  father's  library  was  read 
and  re-read,  and  the  neighbors'  shelves  laid  under  contribution 
to  satisfy  the  increasing  appetite.  The  volume  that,  more 
than  any  other,  formed  her  taste,  was  a  large  collection  of 
poetry,  with  the  title  of  "  Elegant  Extracts."  This  she  read 
incessantly,  and  almost  learned  by  heart.  Her  first  attempts 
at  poetical  composition  were  acrostics,  written  when  about  12 
years  of  age,  for  the  amusement  of  her  school  companions, 
and  simple  descriptions  of  nature.  The  latter  were  studiously 
concealed,  and  only  came  to  light  by  accident. 

As  she  approached  the  age  of  17  her  religious  feelings  be 
came  more  prominently  developed  by  her  interest  in  the  opin 
ions  she  always  afterwards  advocated.  Her  nature  was  too 
essentially  religious  to  show  itself  in  any  sickly  manifestation 
of  infant  piety.  She  worshipped  as  a  child  only  can  worship  ; 
by  reverence  for  superiors,  love  and  kindness  for  companions, 
and  a  joyous  sense  of  the  beauty  of  the  outward  creation. 
Had  she  not  lived  in  a  time  of  controversy  this  state  of  beau 
tiful  unconscious  piety  would  never  have  been  disturbed ;  for 
Religion  was  with  her  preeminently  a  matter  of  feeling,  and 
Theology  always  hateful  to  her.  The  instincts  of  her  own 
heart  would  have  guided  her  to  the  highest  interpretation  of 
Christianity.  Yet  circumstances  called  out  a  full  expression 
of  religious  opinion.  She  was  affected  by  the  general  interest 
in  the  discussion,  then  raging  about  her,  between  the  defenders 


16  MEMOIR. 

of  Calvinism  and  a  more  liberal  faith.  Her  father's  family 
were  believers  in  the  doctrine  of  the  Universal  Salvation  of 
mankind,  and  the  house  the  frequent  resort  of  the  ministers 
of  that  faith.  She  could  not  fail  to  be  attracted  by  this  aspect 
of  Christianity.  Her  own  soul  had  already  taught  her  that 
"  God  is  love,"  and  affections  so  disinterested  as  hers  could 
never  rise  in  adoration  to  a  Being  who  would  sacrifice  half 
his  creatures  to  appease  an  infinite  wrath ;  —  even  though 
such  wrath  were  dignified  with  the  name  of  Divine  Justice, 
and  such  a  Being  exalted  to  the  highest  place  in  the  universe 
and  caDed  God!  She  at  once  recognized,  in  the  central  prin 
ciple  of  the  Universalist  faith,  the  great  truth  of  Christianity  ; 
and  with  her  Bible  for  a  teacher,  and  her  heart  for  a  commen 
tary,  attained,  at  an  early  age,  that  beautiful  religious  trust 
which  deepened  and  widened  every  succeeding  year  of  her 
life.  She  never  loved  doctrinal  disputation,  knowing  how 
fruitless  are  its  usual  results ;  and,  though  desirous  that  all 
should  know  the  truth,  never  attempted  to  make  a  proselyte. 
There  was  a  total  absence  of  fanaticism,  even  in  this  early 
stage  of  her  religious  life ;  and  the  beauty  of  that  confiding 
character,  as  it  expanded  into  the  active  sphere  of  womanhood, 
in  which  no  duty  was  neglected  and  no  possible  act  of  benev 
olence  avoided,  is  a  refutation,  more  powerful  than  theological 
libraries,  to  the  remark,  which  is  yet  repeated,  that  a  firm 
belief  in  God's  saving  purpose  disqualifies  for  the  practice  of 
the  moral  virtues.  Such  a  remark  cannot  be  reasoned  against, 
for  he  who  makes  it  only  proves  that  he  knows  nothing  of  the 
spirit  of  Christianity,  and  the  highest  motives  of  duty  ;  —  and 
the  friends  of  this  faith  will  always  act  wisely  if  they  leave 
such  opponents  to  the  enjoyment  of  their  own  wretched  logic, 
and  endeavor,  by  lives  of  purity  and  disinterestedness,  to  show 
the  spiritual  resources  of  their  inspiring  belief.  This  did  the 
subject  of  our  memoir.  If  she  ever  wrote  a  controversial  line 
she  sincerely  regretted  it,  and  felt  that  it  was  a  descent  from 
the  high  ground  of  her  faith,  though  her  writings  overflow 
with  expressions  of  the  spirit  of  her  cherished  doctrine. 

I  will  say  no  more  of  this  period  of  her  life,  for  although  the 
most  important  epoch  in  the  existence  of  every  human  being, 


MEMOIR.  17 

it  is  that  of  which  we  always  know  the  least.  Expression 
comes  with  approaching  manhood  and  womanhood,  and  long 
before  this  the  character  has  been  silently  formed  by  the  action 
of  hidden  internal  forces.  Her  youthful  experience  was  that 
of  every  superior  nature,  though  the  struggle  was  not  so  great 
by  which  she  came  up  to  peace  as  in  many  spirits  of  more 
decidecNntellectual  conformation.  With  advancing  years  she 
had  little  to  unlearn.  Her  childhood  was  simple  and  affec 
tionate  ;  the  influences  about  her  healthy,  though  destitute 
of  artificial  grace ;  and  her  poetic  energy  sharpened  all  her 
faculties,  and  preserved  her  sincere  and  free  from  the  forced 
restraints  and  sentimental  foolishness  of  maidenhood. 

I  now  come  to  a  period  of  her  life  more  interesting  and 
active,  and  in  which  she  appears  in  new  relations.  At  the 
age  of  16  she  began  to  write  for  publication.  Her  circle  of 
friends  also  rapidly  increased,  and  more  of  her  time  was  passed 
away  from  home  than  before.  Of  course,  with  this  came 
increased  facilities  for  study  and  the  reading  of  good  authors  ; 
and,  what  she  prized  above  all,  frequent  opportunities  of  enjoy 
ing  religious  privileges  superior  to  those  her  own  village 
afforded.  It  will  be  readily  understood  that  she  rapidly  im 
proved  under  such  advantages.  The  succeeding  eight  years 
of  her  life  transformed  her  from  a  timid  girl  to  a  self-possessed 
and  accomplished  woman,  attracting  all  within  the  sphere  of 
her  influence  by  the  charms  of  a  character,  in  which  gentle 
ness  and  firmness,  poetic  sensibility  and  practical  sense,  the 
most  profound  religious  sentiment  and  graceful  manners,  were 
blended  in  an  unusual  degree. 

I  fear  I  shall  fail  in  my  representation  of  this  portion  of  her 
life.  My  acquaintance  with  her  did  not  commence  till  the 
early  part  of  the  year  1842,  and  was  then  wholly  interrupted 
till  the  winter  of  1843  and  '44.  Therefore,  the  events  of  this 
period  I  have  been  obliged  to  collect  entirely  from  her  corre 
spondence,  and  the  recollections  of  her  friends.  These  mate 
rials  have  been  generously  furnished  me,  but  are  quite  frag 
mentary,  and  require  a  central  point,  such  as  in  her  subsequent 
history  my  own  memory  will  supply,  about  which  to  be 
arranged.  Yet  it  is  not  perhaps  very  difficult  to  catch  the 
2* 


18  MEMOIR. 

spirit  of  her  life,  even  from  these  imperfect  materials.  Her 
nature  was  so  simple,  intense,  and  continuous  in  its  progress, 
that  it  is  deeply  impressed  upon  all  she  did  or  wrote.  From 
the  resources  at  my  disposal  I  shall  select,  for  the  illustration 
of  this  period,  such  events  and  passages  from  her  correspon 
dence  as  seem  to  me  to  best  indicate  her  mental  and  moral 
tendencies ;  though  occasionally  at  the  expense  of  continuity 
in  the  narrative. 

The  earliest  traces  of  her  pen  I  find  in  the  pages  of  the 
"  Universalist  and  Ladies'  Repository,"  Sept.,  1836,  although 
I  have  an  impression  that  she  had  written  short  essays  and 
poems  before  for  some  denominational  publication.  The  little 
sketch  of  "  Annette  Lee,"  however,  is  one  of  her  earliest  con 
tributions.  This  was  followed  by  other  articles  in  poetry  and 
prose,  chiefly  published  in  the  "  Repository,"  which  were  so 
favorably  received  by  the  readers  of  this  magazine,  that  we 
find  in  the  succeeding  volume,  1837  and  '38,  her  name  occur 
ring  as  a  regular  contributor.  She  also  wrote  articles  for  the 
other  religious  papers  of  her  own  order. 

These  little  essays,  tales,  and  poems,  of  course,  are  full  of 
those  imperfections  from  which  no  youthful  writer  can  expect 
to  be  free ;  but  they  are  valuable  to  her  friends  as  giving  a 
vivid  picture  of  her  feelings  at  this  time.  Her  earliest  pro 
ductions  have  the  merit  of  genuineness.  Though  often  too 
luxuriant  in  expression,  the  sentiment  is  always  pure  and 
healthful,  and  appropriate  to  the  age  of  the  writer.  The 
themes  are  commonly  religion  and  love ;  but  with  a  predomi 
nance  of  the  former.  In  these,  her  peculiar  faith  shines  out 
too  strongly  to  be  mistaken,  though  divested  of  all  the  repul 
sive  features  of  a  controversial  spirit.  Her  heart  was  bursting 
with  the  inspiring  truth,  "  God  is  love,"  and  her  pen  could  not 
be  withholden  from  the  expression  of  her  joy.  A  condition 
of  spiritual  exaltation  which  would  be  unhealthy,  even  dan 
gerous,  to  minds  differently  constituted,  was  her  natural  state 
at  this  period  of  her  life.  It  did  not  become  religious  senti- 
mentalism,  for  it  not  only  existed  in  her  thoughts,  but  con 
stantly  flowed  out  into  her  every-day  life.  Her  tales  of  love 
are  full  of  the  same  spirit,  and  in  them  the  human  affections 


MEMOIR.  19 

are  never  divorced  from  that  union  with  the  highest  religious 
sentiment,  which  gives  them  their  greatest  depth  and  attrac 
tion. 

Thus  her  early  productions  can  be  read  with  due  apprecia 
tion  only  by  one  who  knew  her,  or  who  regards  them  as  a 
faint  expression  of  an  overpowering  religious  emotion,  strug 
gling  every  way,  by  life,  and  speech,  and  written  word,  to  gain 
utterance.  Of  these  I  have  selected  a  few  for  the  present  vol 
ume  ;  but  most  of  them  will  be  found  in  the  pages  of  the 
Ladies'  Repository,  beginning  with  volume  five.  Two  of  her 
little  books,  "The  Palfreys"  and  "  Ellen  Clifford,"  tales  for 
children,  belong  to  this  period.  Two  additional  volumes  were 
also  collected,  in  1840  and  '41,  from  her  magazine  prose  arti 
cles,  under  the  titles  of  "  Spring  Flowers,"  and  "  The  Poetry 
of  Woman."  Of  these  the  latter  is  the  most  valuable.  The 
literary  merit  of  these  works  consists  principally  in  passages 
descriptive  of  the  affections,  and  the  sincerity  which  pervades 
them.  They  mark  a  gradually  elevated  standard  of  taste,  but 
must  be  read  in  the  same  relations  to  her  spiritual  condition 
which  we  have  mentioned  above.  Her  contributions  to  the 
literature  of  her  denomination  were  very  numerous.  She 
wrote  much  more  than  her  own  judgment  would  dictate,  and 
necessarily  with  great  rapidity.  The  reasons  for  this  were, 
the  constant  necessity  laid  upon  her  for  expression  in  this 
manner,  by  the  want  of  congenial  society ;  a  warm  interest  in 
the  religious  welfare  of  her  own  sex,  which  made  her  feel  that 
her  efforts,  however  feeble,  should  not  be  withholden;  the 
solicitations  of  her  friends,  and  a  total  absence  of  literary  am 
bition.  To  these  may  be  added  a  laudable  desire  to  render 
herself  independent  of  her  parents  in  pecuniary  respects, 
whom  the  burden  of  a  large  family  and  a  series  of  misfortunes 
had  placed  in  somewhat  reduced  circumstances;  and,  later, 
the  wish  to  educate  a  brother,  which  she  accomplished  solely 
by  her  own  exertions.  Her  letters  are  full  of  passages  show 
ing  her  own  too  humble  estimate  of  her  productions,  proving 
that  the  woman  was  never  lost  in  the  authoress,  and  that  it 
was  rather  to  the  absence  of  some  one  competent  to  direct, 
and  the  haste  of  constant  publication,  than  to  a  deficiency 


20  MEMOIR. 

in  taste,  that  faults  were  permitted  to  remain  in  her  best  pro 
ductions. 

Not  the  least  advantage  she  derived  from  her  appearance 
before  the  public,  was  the  opportunity  of  increasing  the  num 
ber  of  her  friends,  and  mingling  oftener  in  congenial  society. 
Her  desire  to  be  loved  was  a  part  of  her  nature,  and  would 
have  compelled  her  to  require  sympathy  under  any  circum 
stances.  Now  she  was  enabled  to  gain  friends  for  her  mind 
and  heart,  in  whose  society  and  correspondence,  in  connection 
with  the  circle  at  home,  the  great  happiness  of  her  life  consisted. 
The  beauty  of  her  character  was  apparent  in  these  relations 
as  nowhere  else.  Full  of  confidence  in  the  sincerity  of  others, 
disinterested  even  to  absolute  self-forgetfulness,  she  was  at 
once  the  most  unreserved  and  devoted  of  friends.  Her  love 
was  easily  won,  and  not  easily  lost.  Her  correspondence 
during  these  years  is  a  beautiful  picture  of  a  life  quietly  spent 
in  literary  and  domestic  duties,  and  cheered  by  the  affection 
of  a  constantly  increasing  circle  of  esteemed  acquaintances. 
Of  such  a  number,  equally  beloved,  it  is  hardly  possible  to 
particularize ;  but  we  may  mention  the  names  of  the  Rev.  H. 
Bacon  and  wife,  Mrs.  L.  J.  B.  Case,  Mrs.  J.  H.  Scott,  Rev. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  T.  J.  Sawyer,  Miss  L.  M.  Barker,  Rev.  J.  G. 
Adams  and  wife,  Miss  S.  E.  Starr,  A.  Tompkins  and  family, 
Rev.  A.  C.  Thomas,  and  Rev.  T.  B.  Thayer.  Others  were 
not  less  esteemed,  though,  from  the  distance  of  their  places  of 
residence,  she  did  not  know  them  with  that  intimacy  which 
could  entirely  Avear  away  her  constitutional  diffidence.  Sev 
eral  years  later,  a  most  precious  addition  was  made  to  this 
number,  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  C.  A.  Jerauld. 

In  giving  selections  from  her  correspondence  with  these 
friends,  I  regret  that  I  have  been  able  to  present  so  little,  com 
pared  with  the  large  number  of  letters  she  wrote. 

Her  epistles  are  all  beautifully  characteristic,  and  could 
they  be  presented  in  their  natural  order,  would,  in  connection 
with  her  writings,  give  a  complete  picture  of  her  mind  and 
heart.  But  this  cannot  be  done ;  for  most  of  them  are  too 
exclusively  personal  to  be  admitted  into  a  memoir.  I  have 
chosen  such  passages  as  appear  to  me  to  best  illustrate  her 


MEMOIR.  21 

life,  while  details  concerning  other  persons  have  been  gener 
ally  excluded.  The  few  events  in  her  outward  history  during 
this  period  I  shall  briefly  indicate  in  connection  with  these 
extracts. 

In  Feb.,  1839,  she  writes  to  her  publisher :  — 

"  I  have  written  as  far  as  three  chapters  in  a  second  book,  which, 
if  possible,  I  intend  to  finish  in  March.  It  will  be  somewhat  longer 
than  '  The  Palfreys,'  unless,  like  the  starving  poet,  I  am  obliged  to 
kill  my  hero,  because  I  cannot  afford  longer  to  keep  him — as  a  man 
kills  his  ox.  Some  persons  have  lamented  to  me  that  I  did  not  con 
tinue  the  story  of  'The  Palfreys,'  and,  as  you  suggest,  marry  my 
young  heroines  to  good  husbands,  which,  however  scarce  they  may 
be  in  actual  life,  are  as  plenty  as  blackberries  in  a  young  lady's  fancy. 
But  it  was  my  opinion,  at  the  time  I  wrote  that  work,  that,  as  it  was 
intended  for  children,  its  interest  should  be  created  by  those  simple 
and  gentle  affections  that  belong  to  childhood.  Love  does  not  have 
that  control  over  children  minor  their  teens  that  it  does  over  '  children 
of  a  larger  growth  ;'  and  they  better  comprehend  a  delineation  of  the 
sentiments  that  exist  in  their  hearts  now,  than  of  those  latent  passions 
of  their  nature  that  are  waiting  for  their  call  in  quiet  unconsciousness. 
I  think,  therefore,  that  it  will  not  be  expedient  to  write  a  sequel  to 
'  The  Palfreys,'  but  leave  it  for  the  imagination  of  its  readers  to  make 
a  sequel  of  their  own.  In  my  next  work,  however,  which  is  intended 
for  young  gentlemen  and  ladies  —  not  children  —  I  will  weave  in  a 
link  of  love,  to  make  it  the  more  interesting." 

The  sequel,  however,  as  we  have  seen,  was  written  in 
"  Ellen  Clifford." 

Her  love  for  the  study  of  the  natural  sciences  constantly 
increased,  especially  for  Botany.  In  a  letter  to  Rev.  H.  Ba 
con,  Aug.,  1838,  she  thus  writes  :  — 

"  Tell  E A if  there  is  a  single  flower  anywhere  in  the 

precincts  of  the  parsonage,  to  pluck  it,  and  press  it  in  a  book  very  care 
fully  for  her  sister  Sarah.  I  preserved  the  sea-weed  she  gave  me,  from 
Medford  Lake,  and  it  is  very  beautiful.  Can  there  be  any  monitor  more 
touchingly  expressive  than  a  faded  flower  —  one  that  some  dear  hand 
has  gathered  and  presented  as  a  delicate  token  of  love  ?  How  many, 
many  such  little  relics  have  I  preserved,  and  even  the  fragrance  of 
their  decay  is  sweeter  than  the  freshness  of  life  from  those  less  cher 
ished.  I  hope  our  wild  flowers  will  not  have  all  decayed  ere  you  are 
with  us. 


22  MEMOIK. 

'  Our  own  dear  wild  flower  ever  loved 
The  other  wild  flowers  best,' 

says  a  poetess  of  her  buried  sister.  So  do  I.  There  is  an  humble, 
retiring,  uncultivated  beauty  in  them,  that  is  infinitely  more  touching 
than  that  which  everybody  sees  and  everybody  praises  in  the  brilliant 
daughters  of  the  garden." 

In  the  same  year  commenced  her  correspondence  with  Mrs. 
J.  H.  Scott.  The  friendship  of  this  estimable  woman  was  a 
source  of  the  deepest  enjoyment  to  her.  Their  letters  are  full 
of  the  most  touching  expressions  of  mutual  confidence  and 
appreciation.  The  following  extract,  written  before  they  had 
met,  is  from  the  earliest  of  the  series  :  — 

"  What  pleasurable  emotions  did  I  experience,  on  my  return  from 
a  six  weeks'  rambling,  to  find  awaiting  me  a  most  affectionate  epistle 
from  my  beloved  friend  in  Towanda !  I  felt  as  though  I  could  reach 
forth  my  arms  to  clasp  her  to  my  heart ;  and  could  I  only  press  out 
all  sorrows  that  ever  make  her  heart  feel  lonely  or  depressed !  I  have 
often  yearned  for  some  few  words  of  affection  and  encouragement  from 
my  elder  and  more  experienced  sisters,  when  doubts,  and  misgivings, 
and  irresolution  have  made  me  falter.  I  have  felt  what  a  strength 
and  support  their  approbation  would  afford  ;  but  diffidence,  natural  to 
one  so  young  and  secluded  as  myself,  has  long  made  me  hesitate 
about  introducing  myself  to  their  notice.  I  have,  in  this  case,  only 
to  regret  that  I  hesitated  so  long. 

"  Your  letter,  dear  Julia,  (I  love  that  name,)  while  it  afforded  me  the 
deepest  joy,  awakened  at  the  same  time  emotions  of  painful  sympa 
thy.  It  is  most  painful  to  me  to  learn  that  the  spirit  is  depressed  and 
that  its  embodiment  is  weak  —  that  your  lot  is  to  suffer,  to  endure, 
to  weep,  and  to  pray.  My  prayers  shall  be  for  your  recovery  to 
health  and  to  happiness ;  and  on  these  prayers  may  God  yield  his 
blessing.  While  I  have  health  and  friends,  and  a  strong  heart,  I 
humbly  beg  my  Father  that  he  will  make  me  grateful ;  and  as  for 
poverty,  I  have  ever  considered  it  a  most  blessed  evil.  Wealth 
would  bring  me  indolence.  I  am  one  of  that  foolish  kind  who  would 
love  to  lie  all  day  under  a  green  tree  and  dream  Utopian  dreams  ;  but 
He  who  made  me  has  work  for  me  to  perform,  and  I  will  perform  it 
with  gladness,  knowing  that  it  is  for  my  own  benefit  I  labor.  I  wish 
I  could  be  with  you  a  while  ;  it  seems  as  if  I  should  love  you  so  that 
you  would  be  happy  ;  and  I,  who  am  sunny  nineteen,  am  just  in  that 
season  of  life  when  to  live  is  to  be  full  of  gladness.  I  have  often 
thought  that  grief  and  sorrow  would  chasten,  and  humble,  and  renew 


MEMOIR.  23 

me ;  but  what  grief  could  I  specify  from  which  I  should  not  shrink, 
and  plead  for  exemption  1  A  sharp  steel  and  a  bitter  potion  are  in 
the  hands  of  the  physician,  but  their  effect  is  ever  salutary  —  and  His 
will  be  done." 

That  she  had  not  studied  the  spirit  of  Christ's  religion  in  vain 
may  be  inferred  from  the  following  touching  letter,  written  to 
a  friend  upon  the  loss  of  his  wife  —  also  one  of  her  earliest 
and  dearest  acquaintances  :  — 

"  There  is  nothing  in  this  wide  world  I  so  much  covet  —  nothing 
for  which  I  would  so  readily  exchange  the  most  vigorous  powers  of 
my  intellect,  as  the  successful  ministration  of  comfort  to  the  bereaved. 
There  is  nothing  so  beautiful,  nothing  so  glorious,  in  the  life  and 
character  of  our  Saviour,  as  the  delicate  and  soothing  power  which 
he  exerted  to  rei'llumine  hope  and  faith  in  the  bosoms  of  the  sorrowing. 
I  feel  at  this  moment  what  a  holy  joy  that  power  of  doing  good  must 
have  constantly  afforded  him.  When  he  stood  with  the  weeping  sis 
ters  at  the  grave  of  the  beloved  Lazarus,  he,  too,  wept.  Be  assured, 
my  brother,  that  this  tribute  of  my  sympathy  is  not  denied  to  you. 
My  whole  heart  is  with  you  —  its  prayers,  its  tears,  and,  oh,  still 
more  than  these,  its  earnest  and  sacred  hopes.  Much,  very  much, 
do  I  hope  for  you,  my  mourning  brother.  The  night  looks  very  dark 
and  very  drear  to  you  now,  but  keep  your  spirit's  gaze  fixed  upon  the 
heavens,  for  there  is  a  glorious  Star  heralding  a  holier  and  brighter 
day  which  leadeth  to  no  night-time  forevermore.  The  time  is  short 
for  us  to  linger  here  —  it  may  be  but  a  moment.  And  we  shall  all 
of  us  be  the  happier  to  go,  now  that  loved  ones  have  preceded  us. 
Let  us  strive  to  think  of  them  calmly,  even  though  sadly,  as  having 
gone  to  rest  a  few  years  before  us.  We  must  go  to  them  soon  —  we 
wish  to  go  to  them  soon  ;  for  what  is  there  in  the  cares,  or  even  the 
pleasures  of  life,  that  would  keep  us  long  from  the  eternal  Home  of 
Love? 

"  My  heart  sunk  within  me  when  I  received  your  letter,  informing 

me  of  the  dangerous  situation  of  our  dear  L ,  and  many  and  very 

fervent  were  the  petitions  that  wefit  up  from  my  innermost  soul  for 
her  and  for  you.  And  need  we  doubt  that  our  heavenly  Father  heard 
them  ?  But  oh  !  He  is  wiser  and  better  than  I.  He  loved  you  both 
with  a  more  perfect  love  than  is  possible  with  me,  and  knew  that  it 
was  for  the  good  of  us  all,  that  his  gentle  child  should  be  removed 
from  us.  Let  us,  my  dear  brother,  ask  Him  not  why,  but  lean  our 
heads  on  his  bosom,  and  trust  as  in  a  faithful  and  tender  Father,  be 
lieving  in  our  very  souls  that '  these  light  afflictions,  which  are  but  for 


24  MEMOIR. 

a  moment,  are  working  out  for  us  a  far  more  exceeding  and  eternal 
weight  of  glory.'  • 

"  I  feel  that  I  too  need  some  sympathy,  for  have  I  not  lost  a  very 
kind  and  faithful  friend  ?  She  was  very  dear  to  me,  and  long  will 
the  memory  of  the  pleasant  hours  I  have  spent  with  her  in  the  most 
perfect  intercourse  of  confiding  friendship,  linger  in  my  heart,  like 
some  marked  spots  kept  ever  green  by  the  waters  of  love.  I  little 

thought,  dear  L ,  that  my  next  meeting  with  thee  would  be  in 

heaven  !  But  if  the  separation  be  long,  oh,  joyous  indeed  will  be 
the  meeting!" 

And  to  another  friend,  writing  of  the  same  person,  she 
says : — 

"Poor  Mrs. !  —  no,  I  need  not  say  that  —  dear  Mrs. ! 

she  has  left  us  to  join  truer  and  better  friends  ;  may  we  not  lament 
our  loss  !  Yet  I  am  happy  that  I  have  known  her,  even  though  our 
acquaintance  was  but  for  the  space  of  little  more  than  a  year.  I  have 
had  one  more  proof  of  the  excellence  of  human  nature  ;  she  was  an 
honor  to  it  and  to  her  sex,  for  she  was  pure  and  amiable.  I  feel  for 

Br. deeply,  painfully.     The  light  of  his  life  has  gone  out,  yet 

he  is  not  in  utter  darkness ;  there  is  a  star  left  to  guide  him  —  he 
will  follow  that.  The  same  day  that  you  put  on  your  bridal  robes, 

dear  M ,  our  beloved  L put  on  her  shroud !     I  would  not 

make  you  sad,  but  oh !  can  I  fail  to  write  this  lesson  on  the  inner 
tablets  of  my  heart?  So  do  joy  and  sorrow  go  hand  in  hand  through 
our  earth  ;  smiles  are  but  channels  for  tears  ;  the  seal  of  love  bears 
the  device  of  cross-bones,  and  the  motto,  Death.  But  it  will  not 
be  ever  thus  —  there  is  a  blessed  home  where  we  can  say,  '  We  part 
no  more  forever  ! '  I  sometimes  think  I  would  enter  that  home  be 
fore  I  have  yielded  myself  to  stronger  ties  than  have  yet  bound  me. 
But  come  my  hour  when  it  may,  it  will  bring  no  pang  save  the 
thought  that  others  will  weep  too  bitterly  for  me.  I  would  not  have 
others  suffer  for  me  what  I  have  suffered  in  the  loss  of  those  I  lo*." 

The  following,  written  at  this  time,  contains  a  characteris 
tic  portrait  of  its  author's  heat t :  — 

"  I  am  advancing  steadily,  though  rather  slowly,  in  my  work  — 
sometimes  get  a  little  weary  and  discouraged  —  who  does  not  ?  —  and 
then  there  is  some  kind  ministry  sent  me  from  the  Guardian  of  my 
happiness,  and  I  am  recruited  to  toil  on  again  in  the  way  of  my 
earthly  mission ;  fearful  and  trembling,  it  is  true,  but  nerved  with 
hope  and  faith,  and  cheered  on  by  precious  tokens  of  encouragement 
from  those  I  trust  and  love.  I  have  little  ambition  for  myself,  other 


MEMOIH.  26 

than  to  perform,  as  faithfully  as  I  know,  the  duties  required  of  me  as 
a  Christian  woman,  and  to  make  the  worthiest  consecration  of  the 
gifts  my  Father  has  entrusted  to  my  use.  Others  are  ambitious  for 
me  ;  they  would  lead  me  to  higher  places  in  this  world's  honors  than 
I  have  ever  trod  before  ;  would  that  they  might  be  nearer  unto 
heaven !  Angels  in  elder  times  came  down  to  earth ;  would  that 
mortals  in  later  days  might  go  up  to  heaven  !  And  may  they  not  — 
and  do  they  not  sometimes  ?  We  have  some  beings  in  our  world  who 
seem  indeed  to  walk  with  God  —  so  pure  and  holy,  that  we  gaze  upon 
them  and  love  them  as  if  they  were  visitants  from  the  '  Father-land.' 
O,  that  there  were  no  downward  gradation,  no  descending  scale! 
Yet,  unholy  as  the  world  is,  I  love  it ;  I  am  disposed  to  cast  abroad 
many  affections  upon  the  things  of  this  earth.  Phrenologists  would 
give  me  very  large  '  adhesiveness.'1  Perhaps  I  can  say  what  few  can 
—  L  have  never  yet  found  a  false  friend  —  I  never  have  known  what  it 
is  to  have  an  enemy.  The  world  has  been  unto  me  good  and  kind. 
I  have  never  been  tried  as  my  Master  was,  for  he  came  and  taught 
the  doctrine  of  love.  A  blessed  doctrine  was  that.  It  hath  conquered 
enmity  —  it  hath  overcome  malice  —  it  worketh  yet  amid  their  ruins ! 
Do  not  say  I  am  a  dull  preacher  —  I  seldom  indulge  in  homiletics  — 
but  once  in  a  while,  under  the  influence  of  the  prosing  impulse,  I 
fall  into  sentiment,  and  forget  to  extricate  myself.  ***** 
"  Perhaps  I  am  too  familiar  —  but  why  should  I  be  '  starched  up' 
with  odious  ceremony  in  addressing  my  brother?  Why  not  indulge 
in  the  pleasant  familiarities  that  belong  to  sisterly  affection?  Were 
I  to  be  fettered  now  in  chains  of  prudery,  believe  me,  it  would  be  the 
first  time  in  all  my  life.  Universalists  are  the  last  people  in  Christen 
dom  to  be  made  cold-hearted  by  the  formalities  of  custom,  fashion, 
and  propriety.  I  had  rather  be  a  nun,  shut  out  from  the  sympathies 
of  the  world,  than  to  mingle  with  my  fellow-beings,  and  not  have  my 
heart  free  to  utter  its  affections.  It  is  so  sweet  to  speak  what  one 
feels,  and  know  that  another  feels  it  too  —  to  utter  the  glad  impulses 
of  a  warm  heart,  and  meet  no  chilling  repulse  from  the  eyes  of  old 
duennas  —  to  be  free,  familiar,  social.  I  know  you  approve  of  a 
spirit  like  this.  I  am  confident  I  shall  always  maintain  it  among 
those  who  understand  me  ;  for  I  was  born  in  the  country,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  wings  of  Liberty,  where  there  are  no  walls  to  shut 
in  the  buoyant  heart ;  no  tyrant,  like  Fashion,  to  put  gilded  fetters 
upon  unresisting  slaves  ;  no  servile  bowing  of  the  knee  to  Ceremony ; 
no  particular  measure  for  the  humility  of  a  bow  ;  no  prescribed  into 
nation  of  the  voice  ;  nothing  fettered  in  the  heart ;  nothing  regu 
lated  in  the  manners !  Here  all  is  free  ;  and  I  among  the  all." 
3 


26  MEMOIR. 

To  her  friends  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bacon  she  writes  much  this 
year.  From  these  letters  we  extract  the  following  passages 
expressive  of  various  moods  :  — 

"  A  happy,  happy  new  year  be  thine  !  Who  more  richly  deserves 
happiness  —  who  more  likely  to  receive  it?  Oh,  my  sweet  sister, 
could  the  warm  wishes  of  my  heart  be  realized,  never  would  a  shadow 
dim  youf  pathway,  never  would  a  thorn  lurk  beneath  the  rose-buds 
that  border  it  along  towards  '  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,' 
into  which  you  and  I  must  enter ;  but,  blessed  be  God  !  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  One  who  hath  travelled  through  it  unharmed,  and  will 
lead  us  as  safely  —  would  I  could  say,  as  confidently  —  as  he  has  trod  ! 
The  past  year  has  been  a  happy  one  to  me  ;  I  think  I  may  say  the 
happiest  one  of  my  life.  In  it,  I  can  date  the  commencement  of 
those  blessed  friendships  that  can  never  cease  to  be  the  sunshine  of 
my  existence.  I  cannot  look  back,  without  a  sigh,  (though  I  am  not 
wont  to  be  sad,)  upon  the  pleasures  that  have  been  borne  away  on 
the  wings  of  Time,  perhaps  never  to  be  renewed. 

"  Yet  the  new  year  is  full  of  hope.  I  have  entered  upon  it  with  a 
light  heart  —  and  should  its  dear,  dear  dreams  be  fated  to  pass  away 
like  morning  shadows,  may  I  learn  to  '  hang  all  my  golden  hopes 
upon  His  arm,'  and  carry  my  vision  forward  to  a  delightful  home  in 
heaven.  I  have  been  looking  back  upon  the  vanished  year,  and 
recounting  the  hopes  that  have  blossomed,  and  the  hopes  that  have 
been  blighted  in  the  bud.  How  glorious  have  the  many  spread  their 
bright  leaflets  to  the  light  of  earthly  joy,  expanded,  and  fallen  away, 
only  to  leave  the  golden  fruitage  hanging  upon  my  heart,  sweet  as 
the  honey  of  love !  And  what  if  a  few  have  drooped  away  like  idle 
things,  though  they  were  dear?  Is  there  not  another  year  at  hand, 
that  may  renew  them  with  even  brighter  promise,  and  more  propi 
tious  fate  ?  '  Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast,'  and  though 
the  poet  denies  it,  'man,'  and  woman  too,  'is'  sometimes  'blest!' 
Excuse  my  moralizing  strain.  It  is  the  privilege  of  New  Year's  day 
to  be  sentimental ;  even  wise  and  good  men  recommend  it  as  a  suit 
able  season  to  reflect  upon  the  past,  and  meditate  plans  for  the  future. 
I  have  but  one  general  plan,  and  that  is,  to  live  more  worthy  of  my 
blessings  than  in  years  that  are  gone  —  to  become  holier,  wiser,  bet 
ter,  and,  therefore,  happier." 

"  How  they  pass  away  —  the  young  and  good !  Oh,  is  it  not '  a 
fearful  thing  to  love  what  death  may  touch?'  Let  us,  dear  friend, 
place  our  hearts  on  the  better  home  above,  and  make  not  our  happi 
ness  too  much  on  earth.  It  is  hard,  ah  very  hard,  to  keep  the  heart 
from  idolatries.  Is  it  not  a  crime  to  love  too  well  ?  I  sometimes  fear 


MEMOIR.  27 

that  I  am  guilty  of  bestowing  too  much  on  beings  of  earth,  and  that 
the  penalty  must  be  paid  in  scattering  the  dust  of  my  heart  upon  their 
tombs.  Have  you  never  feared  ?  I  must,  I  will  strive  to  lay  the 
foundation  of  no  lasting  happiness  here.  I  will  love  but  for  another 
and  a  better  world.  I  will  but  choose  here  the  loves  for  eternity  ! 
How  hard  to  abide  by  this  determination !  And  yet,  I  never  build  in 
my  fancy  any  dreams  of  the  future,  where  I  hope  even  for  days  '  to 
rest  in  my  love.'  No,  heaven  is  the  home  of  my  love  and  of  my 
union.  The  Resurrection  must  be  my  bridal  day,  when  I  will  be 
wedded  to  some  pure  spirit,  not  as  in  earthly  marriages,  but  like  unto 
the  angels  of  heaven.  Have  you  never  thought  of  this  ?  Aye, 
even  you  are  not  perfectly  wedded  here  —  you  only  can  find  the  per 
fect  union  of  your  perfect  nature  in  a  land  where  earthly  passion 
never  intrudes.  Is  it  not  sweet  to  think  of  such  a  time,  when  the 
soul  will  be  blended  with  the  one  spirit  of  its  love,  in  a  union  so  per 
fect  that  individuality  itself  will  be  lost  in  the  all-perfect  welding  of 
angelic  natures  ]  I  dream  and  think  of  it  much  ;  I  love  to  make 
it  the  holy  joy  of  my  lonely  and  silent  hours  ;  I  love  to  make  it  the 
sweeter  portion  of  my  darling  faith  —  to  write  it  on  my  heart  as  a 
talisman  to  keep  it  pure  on  earth,  till  it  be  utterly  purified  in 
heaven." 

"  'Beware'  is  a  very  good  monitor,  and  rest  assured  that  I  shall 
pay  all  proper  heed  to  it.  Do  not  apprehend  any  danger  to  me  — 
I  grow  strong  every  day.  But  I  must  place  '  implicit  trust'  in  those 
I  love  —  I  cannot  help  it.  To  doubt,  with  me,  is  to  dislike.  The 
safe  way,  with  those  we  trust  so  confidently,  is,  to  understand  them. 
Fond  hearts  are  sometimes  allied  to  weak  minds,  that  cannot  discrim 
inate  between  expressions  of  friendship  and  admiration,  and  those  of 
a  tenderer  and  more  delicate  sentiment.  I  think  I  can  do  so ;  but  if 
I  am  deceived,  the  fault  and  its  consequences  will  be  my  own.  *  * 

"  So  many  letters  to  write  —  three  pages  interlined  to  nearly  all  — 
visitors  to  attend  to,  of  whom  we  have  had  not  a  few  —  calls  upon 
the  villagers  —  work  for  our  large  family  —  editorials  to  pick  up  — 
books  to  read  —  berries  to  cull  —  walks  to  take  —  flowers  to  examine 
—  astronomy  to  attend  to — Sabbath  school  and  Bible  class,  etc., 
etc.  —  all  these  things  have  kept  my  mind  in  a  constant  excitement. 
Now  I  mean  to  be  calm  and  think  —  reflect  upon  things  a  little.  The 
danger  will  be,  I  shall  be  assailed  by  my  inveterate  habit  of  dream 
ing.  Do  you  know  of  any  specific  ?  Were  you  ever  thus  troubled  ? 

******  Tell  E I  rise  about  seven  o'clock  —  eat  breakfast, 

wipe  dishes,  sweep,  make  bed,  sometimes  churn,  wash  and  iron  — 
make  toilet,  then  cloister  myself  in  the  study  till  dinner ;  when  this 
is  despatched,  and  the  dishes  are  again  in  the  cupboard  I  return  to 


28  MEMOIR. 

books  and  pen,  and  leave  them  not  till  night.  Were  she  to  look  in 
occasionally,  she  would  see  me  sitting  in  my  arm-chair,  with  a  sheet 
before  me,  a  happy  countenance  —  sometimes  frowning  for  a  thought 
—  a  pile  of  books  on  the  table  in  front,  work-basket,  unanswered  let 
ters,  a  dish  of  berries,  flowers,  scraps  of  poetry,  etc.  etc. ,  all  in  fine  dis 
order.  Sometimes  sisters  come  in ,  and  we  enjoy  a  fine  laugh  together. 
Sometimes  she  might  see  me  thoughtful,  and  perhaps  sometimes  in 
tears.  I  have  things  to  make  me  weep  —  but  it  is  for  others,  not 
myself,  save  when  I  am  yearning  for  absent  friends,  of  whom  none 
is  dearer  than  her  own  dear  self.  Some  of  my  letters  make  me  weep, 
for  some  of  them  are  very  sad.  The  clock  strikes  twelve  —  a  warn 
ing  to  close." 

"  I  believe  I  have  not  yet  half  answered  your  kind  letter  of  Aug. 
13th.  You  say  some  good  things  about  romance  and  reason  —  a 
very  pretty  alliteration,  by  the  way.  Perhaps  you  deem  that  in  the 
indulgence  of  the  former,  I  throw  the  latter  to  the  winds.  It  may  be 
so  ;  yet  if  it  be,  it  is  no  longer  properly  romance,  but  idle  folly,  since 
romance,  in  the  true  acceptation  of  the  term,  is  but  the  unsealing  of  the 
tenderest  affections  of  the  heart  by  the  acute  touch  of  the  finest  and 
most  divine  perceptions  of  the  intellect.  It  is  the  union  of  the  most 
refined  capacities  of  the  mind  and  heart.  Romance  is  to  reason,  what 
the  spirit  is  to  its  embodiment  —  giving  it  life,  sensibility  and  grace  ; 
and  therefore,  the  stronger  and  more  vigorous  the  reason,  the  healthier 
will  be  the  action,  and  the  more  powerful  will  be  the  developments  of 

the  spirit  that  refines  it.    You  love  romance,  Br. ,  or  else  you  would 

not  love  E A — —  and  me  —  (by  the  way,  I  would  not  be  under 
stood  as  meaning  there  is  not  an  infinite  difference  in  the  degrees  of 
affection  bestowed  upon  us)  —  for  that  we  are  both  romantic  needs  no 
other  proof  than  that  in  a  few  weeks'  intercourse  we  have  formed  a 
friendship  that  is  only  second  to  any  attachment  of  which  our  hearts 
are  capable.  And  is  it  foolish  ?  Not  unless  all  Heaven's  operations 
in  the  heart  are  so.  Love  is  with  me  a  sudden  emotion,  and  in  almost 
every  instance  a  lasting  one.  It  is  very  difficult  for  me  to  subdue 
attachments,  even  when  the  objects  are  proved  unworthy.  I  love  at 
once,  and  I  love  forever  —  oftentimes  when  even  I  am  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  how  much,  and  how  fondly.  If  I  am  at  any  moment 
led  to  speak  reproachfully  of  those  dear  to  me,  the  next  moment  I 
reproach  myself  a  thousand  times  more  bitterly.  The  general  oper 
ations  of  my  affections  can  be  embraced  in  one  sentence :  I  love  at 
once,  I  trust  implicitly,  and,  if  deceived,  live  on  in  the  love  of  the 
ideal  which  once  I  believed  a  reality.  Where  the  revelations  of  the 
spirit  are  beautiful,  I  must  love.  If  I  meet  with  sympathy  from  hearts 
that  are  susceptible  to  every  touch  of  divinity  abroad  in  this  glo- 


MEMOIR,  29 

rious  world,  how  can  1  repay  them,  but  by  earnest  and  undoubting 
affection  ?  If  my  confidence  and  trust  be  to  them  a  blessing,  for  which 
they  thank  me  with  ardent  gratitude  —  if  they  ch'erish  it  as  a  thing 
sacred,  and  win  it  by  the  sweet  requital  of  their  own,  how  can  I  do 
otherwise  than  continue  it,  and  increase  it  tenfold  ?  ******* 
You  say,  in  your  letter,  '  PO  not  dream  too  fondly.'  Thank  you, 
dear  brother  —  the  advice  is  good,  and  I  will  follow  it.  I  have  no 
dreams  for  the  future  —  none,  I  mean,  that  I  cannot  submit  to  see  dis 
pelled  without  sincere  regrets.  All  I  hope  for  in  the  coming  years  is, 
that  I  may  fulfil  the  duty  I  owe  to  heaven  and  earth,  and  find  my 
reward  in  the  love  of  God,  and  the  friendship  and  affection  of  the 
good  and  wise  among  mankind.  When  any  more  definite  and  fond 
pass  before  me  too  near  my  heart,  faith  gently  draws  her  veil  before 
them,  and  points  my  hopes  to  the  will  of  God.  Oh !  is  not  that  a 
thousand  times  more  blessed  than  any  dreams  the  human  heart  can 
devise  ?  '  Thy  will,  O  God,  be  done ! '" 

"  What  a  blessed  and  holy  thought  it  is  that  our  heavenly  Father 
has  given  us  the  power  to  do  good  to  those  we  love !  Oh,  I  have 
adored  him  more  for  this  one  gift  than  for  all  others  that  can  be  named 
—  simply  to  feel  that  I  may  pray  for  them  —  that  I  may  go  into  his 
presence,  where  he  dwells  alone,  and  plead  with  him,  devoutly  and 
tearfully,  to  bless,  and  sanctify,  and  save  the  loved  ones  of  my  soul  — 
simply  to  feel  this  is  all  of  heaven  to  me.  Often,  of  late,  has  my  spirit 
dwelt  with  His  in  deep  communion  for  you,  sweet  sister  ;  and  I  love 
to  think  —  O,  may  He  pardon  me  if  I  be  presumptive  !  —  I  love  to 
think  that  my  prayers  are  answered  in  the  safety  and  happiness  of 
those  dear  to  me.  *****  I  think,  if  we  would  only  stop  to  count 
our  wealth  instead  of  forever  craving  more  —  if  we  would  study  our 
sources  of  happiness,  and  make  ourselves  acquainted  with  the  true 
amount  of  enjoyment  in  our  possession,  we  should  find  ourselves 
richer  far  than  we  are  wont  to  believe.  So  much  to  minister  to  our 
intellect,  so  much  to  gratify  our  affections !  How  foolish,  how  sinful, 
to  be  always  repining,  and  asking  for  what  we  cannot  have  !  I  do  not 
know  who  has  most  to  be  thankful  for,  you  or  I ;  but  this  I  do  know, 
that  we  are  both  exceedingly  rich.  We  are  rich  because  we  love  and 
are  beloved;  what  more  do  we  ask?  *****  You  know  some 
thing  of  the  depth  of  my  affections  —  you  know  how  much  they  can 
bless  me,  and  how  much  they  can  make  me  suffer.  But  I  would  not 
part  with  them  for  three  times  their  worth  in  intellect.  It  is  so  sweet 
to  love  —  to  be  always  loving  —  to  feel  so  much  —  to  have  your  heart 
trembling  for  hours  together  with  the  mere  consciousness  of  ardent 
affection  toward  something  —  I  care  not  what,  so  it  only  excite  love. 
3* 


30  MEMOIR. 

*  *  *  *  I  am  extremely  well,  and  very  happy.  Nothing  but 
sunshine  is  around  me,  now.  I  am  always  happy  when  at  home. 
There  is  a  spirit  of  love  and  joy  that  guards  this  dear  spot,  which 
defies  all  evil  intrusions.  If  tears  ever  come,  there  is  a  voice  of  affec 
tion,  speaking  in  many  familiar  tones,  that  speedily  drives  them  away. 
But  they  do  not  come  now.  When  I  weep,  it  is  for  others,  not  for 
myself.  For  you  and  yours  I  pray  ;  Heaven  keep  and  bless  you  all !" 

"  Dear ,  my  heart  is  full,  to-night,  and  you  must  suffer  me 

to  scribble  on  as  incoherently  as  I  please.  You  know  my  peculiar 
capacities  for  feeling  ;  you  know  I  have  times  of  overburdened  sensi 
bilities —  times  when  my  soul  will  gush  out,  or  burst  with  its  own 
fulness.  These  feelings  are  partly  the  effect  of  acute  poetic  suscep 
tibilities,  and  partly  the  impulse  of  ardent  affections.  I  sometimes 
tremble  with  the  excitement  of  my  own  wild,  rapturous  dreams,  and 
talk  and  write  as  though  realities  had  made  me  thus  to  suffer  or  enjoy. 
I  fancy  things,  and  feel  them  true.  Such  is  the  condition  of  my  mind 
this  evening.  I  imagine  myself  entirely  and  unchangeably  happy ; 
so  very  deep  is  the  emotion  of  joy  within  me,  that  I  feel  bewildered 
and  oppressed ;  yet  there  is  no  outward  circumstance  to  affect  me  thus. 
I  sit  at  the  fireside,  as  usual,  with  my  sisters  around  me  ;  the  fire  is 
bright,  and  the  faces  are  cheerful.  I,  too,  seem  cheerful ;  but  deep, 
down  in  my  innermost  being,  there  is  a  universe  of  joy,  that  cannot 
be  described,  —  a  something,  that  trembles  and  flutters  within  my 
secret  soul,  and  urges  it  up  to  love  and  earnest  prayer,  to  praises  and 
thanksgivings,  and  glorious  alleluias !  I  am  capable  of  emotions  as 
intensely  blissful  as  they  are  at  times  agonizing ;  but  I  can  conceal  my 
joys  more  successfully  than  my  griefs.  *****  My  dreams, 
my  hopes,  my  plans,  are  all  transformed.  Mysterious  influences  have 
been  invisibly  working  within  me,  and  I  am  holier  and  happier  within, 
than  I  have  been  for  years,  —  happier,  at  least,  than  in  any  previous 
period  of  my  existence.  Yet  the  change  is  all  spiritual  and  unseen. 
No  future  time  will  reveal  it ;  the  world  can  never  know  it.  It  is  not 
a  change  of  circumstances  —  it  is  feeling  alone —  it  is  the  mind,  the 
heart,  the  inner  being.  *****  j  iove  tnat  you  should  know 
that  I  am  happy,  and  principally  for  this  reason  have  I  written  as  I 
have.  I  am  living  in  romance  —  romance  of  the  most  sacred  beauty. 
Not  a  shadow  comes  near  it,  not  a  thorn  is  mingled  with  its  roses, 
not  a  murmur  of  its  sweet  low  melody  is  in  discord.  A  spiritual 
heaven  is  my  own,  to  dwell  in  forever.  All  that  you  can  dream  of 
in  your  philosophy  of  pure  celestial  happiness  is  mine  —  all  mine. 
No  fear  of  any  change  is  mingled  with  the  deep  still  fountains  of  my 
joy." 


MEMOIR.  31 

This  year  she  was  invited  to  edit  an  annual,  to  be  composed 
of  literary  and  religious  articles,  from  the  best  of  her  denomi 
national  writers.  This  she  undertook  with  a  reluctance  which 
nothing  but  the  solicitation  qf  her  friends  could  overcome. 
It  was  an  experiment  at  least  of  doubtful  success  ;  yet  she  at 
last  consented  to  make  it.  Her  letters  to  the  most  prominent 
female  writers  of  the  order,  soliciting  contributions,  were  also 
letters  of  friendship,  and  generally  resulted  in  permanent  cor 
respondence  and  intimate  acquaintance.  In  one  of  these  she 
thus  writes  of  home  :  — 

"  When  reading  over  the  details  of  your  numerous  duties  and  en 
gagements,  I  almost  wonder  where  you  find  a  moment  for  literary 
pursuits,  and  yet,  wherever  there  is  a  natural  fondness  for  such  pur 
suits,  I  believe  there  are  no  cares,  nor  toils,  nor  pleasures,  engrossing 
enough  to  prevent  its  gratification.  My  literary  and  domestic  engage 
ments  are  about  equal.  I  have  no  '  cherubs,'  but  my  '  host '  has 
eleven,  at  home,  some  of  them  rather  old  for  cherubs,  too,  the  young 
est  eight  years.  I  do  very  little  visiting  —  scarcely  attend  half  a  dozen 
parties  in  a  year,  have  considerable  company  from  abroad  during  the 
warm  season,  and  generally  make  one  or  two  short  excursions  myself 
among  those  I  particularly  love.  My  home  is  very  rural,  and,  in  the 
summer,  quite  enchanting.  Every  one  who  visits  me  is  called  upon 
to  fall  into  raptures  with  Bow-Brook,  or  receive  the  opprobrium  of 
having  a  very  dull  taste.  When  you  come  to  see  me,  be  sure  that 
you  are  lavish  in  your  admiration  of  our  sweet  village." 

And  of  her  friends  she  thus  writes  :  — 

"  What  have  I  to  do,  but  to  think  of  the  beings  I  love?  They  are 
never  away  from  me  —  never.  It  matters  not  how  intently  my  mind 
is  fixed  upon  other  things,  they  never  leave  it.  It  is  made  up  of  their 
memories  ;  it  has  no  existence  independent  of  them." 

To  one  who  was  afterwards  very  near  to  her,  she  thus  in 
troduces  herself :  — 

"  Presuming  that  you  will  at  once  surmise  the  object  of  my  letter, 
I  will  pass,  as  I  always  love  to,  over  all  introductions  and  apologies, 
and  tell  you  at  once  how  very  glad  I  am  to  feel  free  to  cast  aside, 
forever,  I  dare  to  trust,  the  name  and  the  feelings  of  a  stranger. 
Most  delightful  of  all  life's  blessings  to  me,  is  an  unreserved  and 
ardent  communion  with  the  good  and  the  intellectual  of  our  earth  ; 


32  MEMOIH. 

and  if  I  am  in  general  somewhat  too  free,  particularly  in  my  epistolary 
intercourse,  those  who  know  me  will  not,  I  think,  attribute  the  fault 
either  to  vanity,  self-esteem,  or  a  want  of  respect  towards  those  whom 
I  address.  But  there  is  always  existing  within  me  —  and  the  feeling 
I  believe  is  innate  —  a  consciousness  of  the  reality  of  life  —  a  free 
spirit  of  companionship  with  the  heirs  of  heaven,  unfettered  by  any 
of  those  petty  forms  of  fashion  and  prudery  (falsely  called  propriety) 
which  are  prison-walls  between  human  hearts,  cold,  impenetrable, 
unyielding.  When  I  reflect,  for  one  moment,  upon  the  true  nature 
of  human  life  —  its  brevity,  and  the  very  little  real  importance  that 
belongs  to  its  interests  or  pursuits,  except  as  they  prepare  the  spirit 
for  its  immortal  destiny,  I  am  astonished,  nay  more,  almost  indignant, 
that  foolish  creeds,  and  rules,  and  ceremonies,  devised  by  men,  should 
set  up  barriers  of  ice  between  hearts  that  should  flow  together  in  one 
living  stream  of  love,  free,  musical,  and  heavenward.  It  shall  not  be 
so  with  us,  shall  it,  dear  sister?" 

And  to  the  same  person  she  writes  again  :  — 

"  If  I  could  feel  conscious  that  in  all  my  efforts,  with  the  pen  or 
otherwise,  I  could  do  the  same  amount  of  good  to  one  individual  that 
I  have  received  from  a  single  sermon,  I  would  go  to  my  grave  satis 
fied  that  my  mission  was  worthy  of  my  toils,  and  had  been  well 
accomplished.  *****  The  more  I  love  in  this  world  of 
loves,  the  more  I  desire  the  home  where  I  can  rest  in  this  love  — 
where  all  can  be  ever  with  me  —  all  the  chosen,  I  mean  —  the  dear 
elect,  of  whom  you  are  one,  —  the  peculiar  objects  of  my  earthly  love. 
You  shall  make  one  in  my  heavenly  coterie  —  may  I,  dear  friend,  be 
one  in  yours  ?  I  am  about  to  commence  Wordsworth's  Poems,  this 
week.  I  do  not  know  how  I  am  to  get  along  without  you.  I  know 
I  shall  weep  if  I  find  any  very  beautiful  passage.  I  shall  so  miss  the 
sweet  assenting  spirit  that  would  beam  from  your  eyes,  could  I  but 

meet  them.     I  had  Miss  B with  me  one  little  week,  this  fall,  and 

we  lived  in  the  interchange  of  looks,  and  thoughts,  and  feelings,  of 
this  kind  ;  then  I  have  since  been  with  you  —  so  like  —  in  cultivation 
of  mind,  and  that  delicate  perception  of  the  beautiful,  that  can  only 
belong  to  spirits  of  the  highest  order  of  purity ;  and  now  to  be  alone  ! 
What  if  the  poet-land  be  all  beautiful  and  holy,  and  thronged  with 
spirits  truer  than  earthly  loves  ?  If  there  be  not  one  with  me  there, 
who  can  feel  with  me  that  it  is  so,  my  heart  will  ache,  and  find  its 
very  enjoyment  painful,  unless  participated.  I  do  not  know  how  to 

account  for  it,  Mrs.  C ,  but  I  have  been  hearing  your  voice  for  five 

minutes  past,  singing  that  sweet  little  song  I  so  admired :  — '  Let  us 
go  to  the  Leal-Land,  love ;'  and  my  heart  is  throbbing,  as  you  saw  it 


MEMOIR.  00 

once,  and  would  fain  go  there  with  yours.  Some  day,  love,  will  you 
be  kind  enough  to  copy  that  little  song  for  me?  —  the  words  I  mean. 
I  intended  to  have  done  it  myself,  but  forgot  it." 

Her  religious  struggles  of  this  period  are  briefly  noticed  in 
a  letter  to  Mrs.  Scott,  in  the  following  words  :  — 

' '  Between  Heaven  and  my  own  heart  have  been  witnessed  many 
struggles  known  only  to  the  searching  eye  of  God.  It  is  through 
such  as  these  that  I  am  becoming  prepared  for  a  perfect  appreciation 
of  the  enjoyments  of  the  unseen  world,  where  the  affections  of  an  ardent 
heart  will  know  no  cold  response,  nor  feel  the  pangs  of  partings  and 
farewells.  My  trials  are  all  within ;  having  there  their  birth,  and 
there  the  sphere  of  their  operations.  They  are  combats  between 
reason  and  feeling  —  between  duty  and  inclination;  and,  owing  to 
the  peculiar  constitution  of  my  mind,  I  suppose  these  struggles  will 
always  continue.  Feeling  a  strong  conviction  of  the  proper  course 
for  me  to  pursue  in  my  present  life,  I  take  upon  myself  duties  and 
responsibilities  which  require  of  me  greater  efforts  of  intellect  than  I 
am,  in  many  moods,  capable  of  making.  Yet,  in  my  moments  of 
sober  reflection,  I  feel  that  it  is  right  and  well  that  I  have  driven  my 
self  into  labor,  —  for  what  little  talents  I  have  were  not  given  me  for 
selfish  gratification  alone.  While  I  can,  I  must  make  them  available 
to  others." 

In  the  autumn  of  1838,  Mrs.  Scott  came  to  Boston,  to  attend 
the  General  Convention  of  Universalists,  and  there  commenced 
a  personal  acquaintance,  which  continued  till  the  death  of  the 
former,  with  increasing  interest.  We  also  find  hints  of  other 
occasional  visits  ;  to  the  city,  especially,  and  to  Haverhill,  the 
residence  of  Rev.  H.  Bacon,  which  he  has  described  in  the 
glowing  language  of  friendship,  in  his  affectionate  notice  of 
her  life,  in  the  Rose  of  Sharon  for  1849.  With  these  few 
exceptions,  however,  her  time  was  spent  at  home.  Here, 
surrounded  by  her  father's  family,  working,  studying,  and 
walking,  giving  and  receiving  village  calls,  she  was  happy 
and  content.  Now  and  then  the  household  atmosphere  was 
brightened  by  the  dropping  in  of  a  friend  from  abroad.  Then 
all  work  and  study  were  thrown  aside,  Bow-Brook,  and  the 
woods  and  hills  explored,  and  a  jubilee  of  the  heart  enjoyed 
for  a  few  days,  succeeded  by  the  old  quiet,  —  more  delightful 
after  the  excitement  of  the  interruption. 


34  MEMOIR. 

In  the  autumn  of  1840  appeared  the  first  number  of  the 
Rose  of  Sharon.  She  had  worked  upon  this  with  many  mis 
givings,  being  obliged  to  write  a  large  proportion  of  the  articles 
herself.  Yet  the  success  of  the  annual  was  so  favorable,  that 
she  was  encouraged  to  proceed,  and  continued  to  edit  it  till  her 
death.  Under  her  care  it  rapidly  improved  in  literary  merit. 
Her  own  best  productions  were  always  reserved  for  its  pages ; 
—  it,  therefore,  contains  the  only  series  by  which  it  would  be 
just  to  estimate  her  increasing  power  of  execution.  The 
praiseworthy  object  of  this  annual,  that  it  should  be  a  yearly 
repository  from  some  of  the  best  writers  of  the  denomination  ; 
its  entire  freedom  from  sectarian  narrowness ;  and  the  excel 
lence  of  many  things  contained  in  it ;  give  us  the  right  to 
claim  for  it  a  rank  superior  to  that  generally  assumed  by  such 
publications.  For  the  denominational  literature  it  has  done 
much,  and  perhaps  even  more,  by  the  cultivation  of  a  spirit  of 
union  and  friendly  intercourse  among  its  popular  writers.  At 
her  death  it  passed  to  the  editorial  charge  of  Mrs.  C.  M.  Saw 
yer,  whose  fine  taste  and  literary  reputation  are  a  pledge  that 
it  will  be  made  yet  more  deserving  the  attention  of  the  reading 
community. 

Of  the  oppression  caused  by  the  unusual  demand  upon  her 
pen  this  year,  she  thus  writes  :  — 

"  If  you  have  never  been  confined  to  a  certain  prescription  of  liter 
ary  duties,  you  can  scarcely  imagine  how  perplexing  it  is.  The 
very  fact  that  I  must  do,  paralyzes  my  mental  powers  ;  and  I  often 
waste  hours  in  vain  struggles  to  acquit  myself  of  duties  that  require 
instant  execution.  The  thought  of  how  much  lies  before  me  in  the 
six  approaching  months  —  the  usual  contributions  to  the  Repository, 
the  care  of  the  annual,  and  a  thousand  subordinate  studies  and  occu 
pations  —  bring  such  a.  weight  of  anxiety  upon  my  mind,  that  it  seems 
fettered  and  motionless  at  times.  A  person  of  stronger  intellectual 
energies  would  laugh  at  my  faltering  before  labors  so  apparently 
trivial ;  but  I  am  very  willing  to  confess  myself  weak  and  timid.  I 
care  not  for  the  labor,  in  itself  considered  ;  but  the  responsibility  I  am 
brought  under,  sinks  my  courage.  However,  my  case  is  not  so  bad 
as  it  might  be,  for  my  friends  are  kind  enough  to  help  me  bear  the 
burden ;  and  I  believe,  if  I  fail  altogether,  there  will  not  be  found 
wanting  many  to  palliate  my  weakness,  and  encourage  me  onward 
once  more." 


MEMOIR.  35 

Yet  she  turns  from  thoughts  like  these,  to  speak  a  word  of 
consolation.  To  a  dear  friend,  who  was  at  this  time  watching 
at  the  bedside  of  a  mother,  she  thus  says  :  — • 

"  I  must  write  to  you,  for  my  heart  is  full.  God  be  with  you,  my 
beloved  friend,  in  all  your  trials.  I  would  that  I,  too,  could  be  with 
you,  if  it  were  even  possible,  that  I  might  alleviate  one  pain,  or 
brighten  one  moment  by  weariless  sympathies.  You  will  pardon  my 
letter,  if  it  intrude  where  it  should  not.  Though  I  feel  that  I  have  ' 
love's  privilege,  I  would  use  it  ever  gently,  and  with  reserve.  But 
you  will  not  suspect  me  of  officious  condolence,  and  if  you  know 
anything  of  me,  you  will  know  that  my  sympathies  are  sincere.  I 
love  you  far  too  well  ever  to  breath  a  word  to  you  that  comes  not 
from  the  soul.  Therefore,  I  will  tell  you  that  my  heart  has  often 
ached  at  the  thought  of  what  you  might  be,  and  probably  have  been, 
suffering  at  the  bedside  of  one  so  dear  to  you.  So  much  to  me  lives 
in  the  name  of  mother,  that  any  word  of  pain  or  sorrow  or  death,  con 
nected  with  it,  comes  to  me  with  a  threefold  bitterness.  If  there  be 
any  one  on  earth  who  has  realized  the  excellence,  the  steadfastness, 
the  perfect  self-sacrifice  of  a  mother's  love,  surely  it  is  I,  and  those 
who  share  it  with  me ;  and  all  I  can  now  conceive  of  human  agony, 
must  be  met,  in  its  strength  and  in  its  weakness,  when  my  last  fare 
well  is  breathed  to  that  perfect  friend  !  Heaven  make  that  trial  light 
to  you,  my  friend,  whenever  it  be  imposed.  *  *  *  *  Perhaps  you 
will  like  to  hear  how  time  passes  with  me.  As  usual,  and  pleasantly. 
The  little  world  around  me  is  happy  —  so  am  I  —  happy,  save  in  the 
fears,  anxieties,  and  regrets,  that  I  suffer  for  all  I  love  ;  and  those  1 
would  not  be  spared,  even  if  I  could.  I  keep  at  work,  day  after  day, 
but  it  is  little  indeed  that  I  accomplish.  My  labors  are  so  lonely,  so 
uninstructed,  and  so  feeble,  that  I  have  many  falterings  and  doubts  in 
my  onward  way.  Oh,  what  a  trial  it  is  to  have  a  heart  to  do,  and  no 
strength  ;  a  will,  and  no  power  ;  a  love,  and  no  gifts !  It  is  a  difficult 
lesson  for  me  to  learn  to  be  content  with  my  feebleness.  I  have  no 
desire  to  be  great,  but  I  wish  I  might  do  good,  and  bless  everything 
I  love  ;  —  my  religion,  and  all  who  come  within  its  brotherhood,  and 
through  them  the  world.  But  why  should  I  write  you  all  this  ?  These 
desires  are  not  new,  not  peculiar  to  myself;  I  wish  I  could  say,  my 
weakness  in  fulfilling  them,  is  not.  I  feel  very  painfully  at  times  how 
much  less  I  accomplish  than  others  would,  in  my  place  ;  but,  though 
these  self-reproaches  are  not  the  best  comforters  in  the  world,  they  will 
doubtless  work  their  good  ;  they  at  least  incite  me  to  perseverance. 
The  care  of  the  annual  is  once  more  returning.  I  ought  to  say  the  gen 
erous  encouragements  of  friends,  the  past  year,  have  made  the  approach 


36  MEMOIR. 

of  this  labor  less  fearful  than  on  the  former  occasion  ;  indeed,  had  it 
not  been  for  those  kind  commendations,  I  should  not  dream  of  a  second 
effort.  I  am  most  thankful  —  Heaven  knows  I  am  —  for  the  goodness 
of  those  hearts  that  have  blessed  me  thus  ;  and  doubly  grateful  tow 
ards  those  who  assisted  me  in  my  task,  and  gave  it  all  the  success  it 
was  fortunate  enough  to  receive.  Will  they  do  as  much  for  me  again  ? 

Mrs.  C ,  will  you?      If  you  can,  you  will,  you  are  so  good,  and 

ever  so  kind  to  me.  I  am  thinking  of  making  you  my  co-editor ;  will 
you  accept?  How  I  would  like  it,  and  how  light  would  the  labor  be, 
thus  shared  !  Come  to  me  when  the  flowers  and  birds  are  here,  and 
we  will  dwell  with  them  in  green-wood  bowers  —  and  our  papers  and 
books  shall  be  with  us,  and  we  will  read,  and  talk,  and  form  plans, 
and  be  the  happiest  wood-nymphs  that  ever  watched  over  the  flowers  ; 
and  our  flower  —  the  dear  little  '  Rose'  —  shall  be  the  sweetest  and 
purest  that  ever  blessed  a  dryad's  care,  and  we  will  —  Oh  dear,  why 
should  I  sketch  so  bright  a  picture  ?  Can  it  ever  be  a  copy  from 
nature  —  a  scene  from  history  —  our  history,  my  beloved  friend  ? 
Would,  indeed,  that  it  might  be  ;  but  life  is,  for  the  most  part,  made 
up  of  darker  views,  and  perhaps  higher  pursuits.  Nevertheless,  I 
cannot  but  often  dream  of  hours  like  these  ;  they  seem  so  sweet,  and 
unalloyed  —  so  like  a  fairy  life  —  in  which ,  invisible  dwellers  in  na 
ture's  holy  sanctuaries,  we  should  quietly  work  unseen  blessings  for 
the  race  of  man,  and  bless  ourselves  in  our  deeds.  You  see  how  self 
predominates  in  these  dreams  ;  how  I  would  draw  you  from  all  domes 
tic  ties,  and -make  you  a  very  girl  with  myself.  I  am  very  foolish,  I 
know  —  a  perfect  natural — for  in  my  baby-days  I  had  the  same  wild 
fantasies  floating  in  my  brain,  and  the  same  dreamy  desires  for  gypsy 
freedom.  I  would  be  one  of  Diana's  maids  of  honor,  and  if  it  be  true 
that  she  condescended  to  kiss  Endymion,  who  knows  but  she  would 
allow  me  to  love  some  shepherd  pastoral  or  divine  ?" 

And  again,  to  the  same  friend,  she  gives  a  characteristic 
revelation  of  her  dependence  upon  the  sympathy  of  friends  for 
encouragement :  — 

"  It  is  a  week  this  day  since  I  received  your  letter,  and  very  wel 
come,  indeed,  it  was,  for  it  not  only  partially  relieved  my  anxiety  for 
you,  but  also  gratified  my  heart  by  its  pleasant  words  of  kindness  and 
affection.  I  would  have  answered  it  even  earlier  than  this  had  I  not 
been  literally  working  on  a  treadmill  of  poetry  for  the  dear  admiring 
public.  I  have  just  stepped  off  for  a  day  or  two  to  chat  with  friends, 
and  then  back  I  must  go  again.  Never  mind  ;  I  go  more  willingly 
since  you  have  so  kindly  encouraged  me.  It  may  seem  foolish,  but 


MEMOIR.  37 

it  certainly  is  true,  that  a  few  such  words  of  gentle  approval  have  a 
great  power  to  strengthen  and  soothe  my  heart.  When  you  tell  me 
that  I  ought  to  persevere  and  be  patient —  that  I  can  do  if  I  will  —  I 
feel  that  indeed  I  will  not  fret  any  more,  but  do  the  best  I  know  how, 
and  wait  for  the  blessing  of  God  upon  it.  Of  this,  however,  enough  ; 
but  I  will  say  that  if  I  could  be  blessed  with  your  aid  —  if  we  could 
live  and  work  together  —  if  you  would  guide  the  '  barque,'  and  let  me 
merely  dip  the  oars  ;  if  you  would  suffer  me  to  brush  away  the  mus- 
quitoes  that  vex  your  ears,  while  you  are  kissing  away  the  venom  of 
some  angry  hornet  from  my  lips,  why,  then,  I  should  be  ever  very 
happy,  let  what  evils  would  assail  us.  But  can  we  ever  be  voyagers 
thus  together  ?  Will  you  come  into  my  barque,  dear  friend,  and  glide 
with  me  along  the  shores  of  the  river  of  Song,  whereon  are  grow 
ing  snow-white  flowers  and  sweet-voiced  reeds  —  flowers  of  which  I 
will  weave  a  beauteous  garland  for  your  brow,  and  reeds  through 
which  I  will  ever  breathe  to  you  love's  own  soft  music  ?  " 

And  to  Mrs.  Scott :  — 

"  After  all  the  flattering  things  you  have  said  of  me  in  your  letter 
—  flattering  I  say,  not  because  I  believe  you  did  not  feel  them,  but 
because  I  cannot  but  deem  them  the  partial  encomiums  of  one  whose 
love  veils  faults  and  exaggerates  merits  —  after  all  those  flattering 
things,  what  can  I  find  to  write  in  reply  ?  Oh,  my  dear  friend,  I  can 
only  say,  that,  flattery  or  no  flattery,  there  is  no  voice  on  earth  sweeter 
to  me  than  your  praises.  I  own  I  like  well  enough  to  be  admired  by 
the  world  —  the  compliments  of  editors,  even,  are  not  displeasing, 
inasmuch  as  they  tend  to  give  me  confidence  in  my  own  powers  ;  but 
it  is  only  the  private  commendations  of  those  I  dearly  love,  that  excite 
deep  emotions  in  my  heart.  You  can  have  no  idea  how  utterly  dis 
couraged  I  become  at  times  ;  how  I  long  to  throw  aside  my  pen  for 
ever  ;  how  worthless  I  deem  every  production  I  have  ever  given  to  the 
world  ;  how  perfectly  hopeless  I  am  of  any  future  improvement.  And 
at  such  moments  the  sweet  encouragements  of  those  whose  judgment 
I  confide  in,  whose  talents  I  venerate,  come  to  my  heart  like  the  cool 
soft  wind  to  the  fainting  wanderer  of  the  desert." 

Yet  passages  like  the  following  show  that  she  had  just  views 
of  literary  composition  :  — 

"  You  have  given  me  some  very  good  and  just  remarks  upon  the 

popular  habit  which  writers  of  the  present  day  have,  of  throwing  their 

thoughts  carelessly  to  the  press,  without  study  or  revision,  —  and  you 

ask  my  opinion.     Notwithstanding  I  plead  personally  guilty  to  the 

4 


38  MEMOIR. 

same  habit,  I  am  not  disposed,  for  that  reason,  to  approve  of  it,  in 
any  department  of  literature.  And  yet,  I  think  less  of  revision,  than 
of  care  and  study  in  the  first  composition.  I  know  not  how  it  is  with 
others,  but  I  know  of  myself,  that,  except  in  trivial  verbal  corrections, 
I  never  alter  with  any  degree  of  success.  The  time  that  many  spend 
in  revision,  I  occupy  in  the  original  moulding  of  my  thoughts.  I 
presume  there  are  few  writers  who  would  not  laugh  at  the  length  of 
time  I  spend  in  composition  —  save  now  and  then,  when  I  am  obliged 
to  dash  off  at  a  stroke  something  to  make  up  my  '  quantum  sufficit' 
for  the  Repository.  But  whether  the  study  be  before  or  after  com 
mitting  thoughts  to  paper,  I  do  contend  that  it  is  every  author's  duty 
to  use  care  and  reasonable  labor  in  the  execution  of  whatever  is  in 
tended  for  the  benefit  of  the  public  ;  and  that  style  should  be  as  much 
studied  as  sentiment  —  since  it  is  style  that  makes  sentiment  popular. 
What  but  the  beauty  and  fascination  of  their  style  could  ever  have 
made  so  many  licentious  works  popular  ?  And  how  could  the  pure 
and  elevated  spirit  of  Channing's  theology  have  penetrated  and  hal 
lowed  so  many  hearts  through  any  other  medium  than  the  classic 
elegance  and  sweet  ideality  of  the  language  in  which  it  is  embodied  ? 
—  I  believe  there  are  a  considerable  number  who  make  pretensions  to 
authorship,  who  really  do  not  know  how  to  finish  a  composition  ;  who 
seem  to  imagine  that  a  display  of  pretty  words,  and  a  picturesque 
sprinkling  of  Ohs  and  Ahs  make  fine  writing,  without  regard  to  ele 
gance  of  arrangement  or  neatness  of  form  and  finish.  What  do  such 
persons  think  of  the  tender  simplicity  of  Wordsworth,  or  the  rich 
economy  of  Irving  1  How  do  they  appreciate  the  quaint  grotesque 
of  Lamb,  or  the  sweet  fanciful  arabesque  of  Mary  Howitt?  —  But  I 
am  no  critic —  (I  wish  I  were,  for  private  purposes)  —  and  I  am  so 
fully  aware  of  my  own  faults  and  deficiencies,  that  I  dare  not  say 
what  I  think  of  others.  ******  I  should  write  a  thou 
sand  things  to  you,  were  we  personally  acquainted,  which  I  do  not 
feel  perfectly  free  to  discuss  now.  I  cannot  touch  upon  themes  where 
I  am  not  certain  I  shall  meet  perfect  sympathy,  for  I  am  one  of  those 
unfortunate,  or  fortunate,  mortals,  who  are  made  wretched  by  one 
unharmonious  tone  in  the  communion  of  love  and  thought." 

In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Case,  she  gives  a  reason  for  the  resolu 
tion  she  had  formed  of  confining  her  exertions  entirely  within 
the  limits  of  her  own  denomination  ;  —  a  resolution  from  which 
she  never  departed  :  — 

"I  am  gratified  —  I  must  not  say  flattered  —  by  what  you  have 
written  concerning  my  probable  success  in  a  more  open  and  elevated 


MEMOIR.  39 

literary  field.  I  confess  I  have  myself  often  thought  of  going  into  the 
presence  of  the  high  and  mighty  ones,  but  not  to  speak  of  my  proba 
ble  speedy  expulsion  —  I  have  always  restrained  my  ambition  by  the 
thought  —  if  I  should  be  kindly  received,  if  my  name  should  become 
known  to  the  gifted  and  the  wise,  surely  I  am  in  no  way  competent 
to  sustain  the  dignity  that  would  be  imposed  upon  me.  I  am  a  timid, 
shrinking,  simple  thing,  grown  up  like  a  weed  without  care  or  culti 
vation,  ignorant  of  the  great  world,  its  rules  and  ceremonies,  and  idle 

pomp.    Oh  dear,  Mrs.  C ,  a  few  such  thoughts  have  soon  tamed  all 

my  aspirations,  and  I  have  felt,  that  instead  of  venturing  further,  I 
would  draw  myself  more  closely  beneath  the  sheltering  wings  of  our 
own  household  of  faith.  I  know  there  would  accrue  advantages  to 
those  works  with  which  I  am  associated,  were  I  favorably  known  to 
the  literary  world  —  but  not  yet  —  I  am  too  conscious  of  my  in 
firmities." 

From  her  correspondence  of  1840,  I  extract  a  few  other 
characteristic  passages :  — 

"  A  faithful  discharge  of  my  editorial  duties  requires  me  to  be  in 
dustrious  and  studious,  qualities  quite  incompatible  with  visiting  and 
journeying  from  scene  to  scene.  I  can  do  nothing  of  an  intellectual 
character  unless  my  feelings  are  all  quiet.  Excitement,  of  all  things, 
wears  most  upon  my  mental  energies  as  well  as  my  physical  strength. 
Perhaps  you  are  not  thus  weak  ;  but  you  will  be  generous  enough  to 
consider  that  from  my  infancy  up  to  the  age  of  twenty-one,  my  life 
has  been,  with  very  transient  interruptions,  one  continued  scene  of 
seclusion  and  quiet  thought.  Any  infringement  upon  these  long- 
established  habits  bewilders  my  brain,  and  excites  my  nerves,  so  that 
for  weeks,  ay,  sometimes  months  after,  I  do  not  recover  my  wonted 
repose  of  feeling,  and  serenity  of  thought." 

"  My  dear  friend,  do  you  not  think  I  ought  to  learn  deep  and  solemn 
lessons  from  histories  like  this  1  You  know  not  how  deeply  my  heart 
is  impressed  by  these  truths.  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  kneel  down  at 
the  feet  of  God,  and  ask  him  to  lay  upon  me  a  portion  of  the  heavy 
burdens  that  are  wearing  away  the  strength  of  those  who  are  dear  to 
me.  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  sacrifice  my  own  sweet  peace  and  richly- 
blest  affections,  that  I  might  suffer  as  others  suffer.  But  no  ;  God  has 
given  me  these  precious  blessings  in  trust,  and  I  must  be  faithful  in 
the  vigils  he  has  bidden  me  keep  over  them.  But  oh,  may  he  grant 
that,  if  his  mercy  shall  some  time  remove  them,  I  may  imitate  the 
patience  and  hallowed  serenity  which  is  so  beautifully  manifested  by 
those  whom  now  I  see  afflicted  and  weighed  down  with  grief!" 


40  MEMOIR. 

"  You  will  begin  to  think  me  either  a  very  forgetful  or  a  very  care 
less  girl,  I  fear ;  but  the  truth  is,  I  am  so  busy.  I  wish  you  were 
here,  in  my  pleasant  little  study,  and  could  look  into  my  multiform 
engagements,  since  my  return.  Here,  on  my  table,  lies  Carlyle's 
'French  Revolution,'  —  second  volume  unread,  but  waiting  impa 
tiently  for  a  perusal — also  my  Bible,  which  I  study  when  I  can,  and 
my  French  books,  which  I  have  not  looked  into,  save  for  reference, 
since  I  came  from  Marblehead.  The  last  Expositor  and  Knicker 
bocker  lie  also  untouched.  But  these  are  by  no  means  all.  My 
great  stuffed  green  velvet  arm-chair  is  full  of  books,  five  volumes  of 
which  treat  of  flowers.  These  make  now  my  daily  study,  as  you 
will  perceive  in  future  numbers  of  the  Repository,  in  which  I  shall 
publish  a  series  of  simple  lessons  upon  botany,  my  favorite  science . 
Then  my  '  Herbarium'  claims  a  portion  of  my  time,  in  pressing  and 
attaching  flowers,  and  writing  down  their  analysis.  But  you  will  be 
weary  of  hearing  all  my  occupations,  for  I  assure  you  I  have  but 
made  a  beginning  of  the  long  account.  Suffice  it  to  say,  in  excuse 
for  my  long  delay,  that  every  moment  of  my  time  is  busily  employed, 
and  yet  half  my  duties  remain  unperformed.  I  owe  very  many  letters 
to  very  dear  friends ;  but  I  keep  putting  off  from  day  to  day,  in  hope 
that  the  time  may  come  soon  when  I  shall  have  more  leisure.  But  I 
doubt  whether  leisure  ever  comes  to  me,  for  study  is  never  done,  and 
I  am  so  far,  so  very  far  behind  what  I  ought  to  be,  that  I  am  fright 
ened  to-  pause  a  moment,  to  think  of  my  real  ignorance.  ***** 
I  must  regret  that  circumstances  have  required  me  to  publish  far 
more  than  has  been  worthy  of  the  public  eye.  I  have  been  a  good 
deal  dependent  upon  my  literary  efforts,  for  the  few  luxuries  of  life 
which  they  have  procured  me.  I  have  been  obliged  to  write,  that  I 
might  buy  books  to  read  ;  to  write  much,  ere  I  could  read  at  all.  And 
so  I  have  plunged  into  many  errors  and  mortifications,  which,  under 
other  circumstances,  might  have  been  spared  me." 

To  a  newly-married  couple  she  writes  :  — 

"  Now  I  have  threatened  you  sufficiently  with  a  visit,  I  must  tell 
you  upon  what  condition,  only,  it  is  to  be  inflicted.  It  is  this ;  you 
must  permit  me  to  be  just  as  undignified,  and  rustic,  and  wild,  as  I 
choose  to  be  ;  you  must  not  call  me  company,  nor  expect  me  to  say  a 
single  author-like  saying.  You  must  let  me  be  so  unpoetical  as  to 
eat,  —  Byron  notwithstanding ;  you  must  not  forbid  my  working  in 
the  garden  with  brother  farmer,  in  his  yellow  bandanna,  nor  romping 
out  of  doors  without  my  bonnet,  when  the  passion  takes  me.  All 
these  things  you  will  remember  and  observe,  and  then  you  may  be 


MEMOIR.  41 

sure  the  visit  will  be  a  long  infliction.     Do  you  begin  to  feel  fatigued 

already?     Oh  no!  dear  M ,  I  am  sure,  if  we  are  well,  we  shall 

have  some  very  happy  hours  together.  I  have  never  known  any  with 
you  that  were  not  so.  I  shall  learn  of  you  to  do  the  graces  of  the 
household,  which  wisdom  will  be  necessary  for  me,  though  who  knows 
but  I  shall  have  a  house  some  time  ?  If  I  do,  I  mean  it  shall  be  some 
where  in  a  range  with  the  hill-side  and  sea-shore  parsonages.  But 
whether  I  have  a  house  or  not,  it  matters  little,  so  that  I  keep  the 
happy  heart  that  beats  so  lightly  in  my  bosom  now.  I  have  a  very 
pleasant  home  here.  I  wish  very  much  to  have  you  see  it  in  the 
beauty  of  summer.  Art  has  done  but  little  for  it,  but  nature,  in  our 
little  Bow-Brook  valley,  has  put  on  her  sweetest  dress ;  and  trees 
and  shrubs  and  flowers  fill  up  the  borders  of  a  most  musical  stream, 
whose  melody  makes  the  charm  of  my  little  '  studio,'  from  early 
spring  till  frozen  midwinter.  The  birds,  too,  haunt  the  vale,  in  mul 
titudes  ;  and  the  frogs  make  the  sweetest  and  most  plaintive  sere 
nades  that  can  be  imagined,  through  all  the  warm  spring  nights. 
My  little  study,  —  shall  I  sketch  if?  It  is  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  has  but  one  window,  where  the  sun  never  enters.  This  window 
looks  down  a  hill-side  into  the  vale,  and  upon  the  brook,  from  the 
point  where  it  rushes  over  a  mill-dam,  till  it  enters  a  small  and  pretty 
mill-pond.  Almost  opposite,  across  the  brook,  rises  the  steep,  high 
hill,  which  shuts  in  the  view,  and  is  crowned  with  trees,  and  clothed 
with  the  greenest  of  all  grass.  Some  twenty  or  thirty  beautiful  elms, 
a  profusion  of  wild  elders  and  shrub  willows,  a  picket-fence,  a  bank 
wall,  and  beneath  the  window  a  nurse.ry  of  fruit-trees  and  currant- 
bushes,  make  up  the  minor  beauties  of  the  scene." 

"  This  tediously  warm  weather  almost  unfits  me  for  the  slightest 
exertion.  I  am  actually  gasping  for  a  cool  breath.  I  sincerely  pity 
all  who  are  encompassed  by  the  brick  walls  of  a  city.  I  find  that 
Nature  and  her  holy  solitudes  become  dearer  to  me  every  year. 
Her  temples  are  almost  my  only  sanctuaries.  Her  wide-spread  and 
deep-toned  volume  has  become  to  me  almost  as  sacred  as  the  revealed 
word  of  God  ;  and  the  more  I  study  the  silent  and  beautiful  mysteries 
enshrined  within  it,  the  more  sure,  and  earnest,  and  hallowing  be 
comes  my  faith  in  the  unshadowed  and  unfathomed  goodness  of  the 
great  Creator." 

' '  It  has  been  said  that  joy  hardens  our  hearts  to  the  sorrows  of  others. 
I  think  it  is  not  so.  My  sympathies  are  never  more  acute  than  when 
I  am  happy ;  and  it  is  not  less  to  me  that  you  are  bereft,  because  my 
cup  of  blessedness  is  full.  From  yesterday's  papers  I  first  learned 
your  loss  —  learned  that  the  silver  cord  of  that  loved  spirit  was  loosed, 
4* 


42  MEMOIR. 

and  the  prisoner  free !  Doubtless  the  bitterest  portion  of  the  bitter 
cup  had  been  already  drank  ;  but  it  is  not  a  little  thing  to  feel  that  all 
our  tender  offices  of  love  are  needed  no  more  forever ;  that  the  eye 
that  turned  to  us  with  petitions  for  comfort,  can  never  look  on  us 
again  ;  and  that  we  are  no  longer  necessary  to  the  peace  of  the  fondest 
heart  that  ever  beat  for  us,  and  which  would  have  beat  for  us  when 
all  others  became  estranged  and  cold.  I  have  felt,  and  do  still  feel, 
great  anxiety  for  you.  I  know  not  how  much  you  have  been  called 
to  endure,  nor  how  capable  you  are  at  present  of  upbearing  yourself 
through  renewed  trials.  I  am  concerned  lest  you  may  be  sick,  or 
otherwise  suffering;  and  in  this  uncertainty,  I  cannot  think  of  you 
without  painful  solicitude.  It  seems  to  have  become  my  destiny  to 
love  you  very  much ;  and  though  that  love  may  be  to  you  but  as  the 
pleasant  incense  of  a  summer  flower,  it  is  to  me  what  the  fragrance 
is  to  the  flower — a  part  of  myself." 

"  I  do  believe,  my  dear  S ,  (I  am  going  to  moralize  a  little  — 

but  don't  be  frightened,)  I  do  believe  that  there  is  nothing  in  life  so 
beautiful  and  elevating  as  the  cultivation  and  improvement  of  the 
intellect  in  connection  with  the  moral  sentiments.  I  do  believe  that 
one  who  really  and  heartily  loves  communion  with  high  thoughts,  has 
resources  of  pure  and  satisfying  happiness,  unknown  to,  and  exceed 
ing  those  of  any  other  propensity  or  faculty  of  our  being.  I  care  not 
in  what  sphere  the  mind  may  range,  whether  it  be  in  the  fields  of 
natural  science,  or  in  the  subtler,  and,  may  be,  loftier  element  of 
metaphysics ;  whether  it  revels  and  soars  in  the  glittering  light  of 
imagination,  or  plods  diligently  along  the  solid  paths  of  mathematics. 
I  care  not  where  its  course  may  lie,  so  that  it  be  upward  and  onward  ; 
for  its  ultimate  destiny  is  to  glory,  its  every  day  wanderings  are  amid 
satisfying  joys.  You  will  think  I  am  assuming  the  office  of  Mentor, 
if  I  go  on  in  this  way ;  but  I  do  assure  you  I  but  speak  from  my  own 
convictions,  and  with  a  feeling  that  there  is  useful  truth  in  what  I 
write.  I  speak  not  of  fame  —  no  woman  needs  fame  to  make  her 
happiness  ;  but  I  do  speak  of  that  diligent  and  persevering  application 
to  study  and  thought,  which  are  necessary  to  fame,  and  which  inlay 
the  mind  with  treasures  that  time  cannot  corrode,  nor  sorrow  destroy. 
In  a  few  years  we  shall  be  young  no  longer,  and  the  amusements 
of  youth  will  fail  to  please  us.  May  be  our  friends  will  forsake  us 
for  a  holier  kindred  in  heaven,  or  will  grow  cold  and  careless,  and 
we  shall  find  no  sympathy  in  all  this  heartless  world.  But  the 
stores  of  the  soul  will  yet  be  ours.  The  green  fields  and  the  gentle 
flowers  will  be  our  friends  —  high  thoughts  will  dwell  with  us  con 
tinually  in  our  loneliness ;  and  even  if  the  whole  outer  world  is  with- 


MEMOIR.  43 

drawn,  deep  in  our  own  spirits  we  shall  find  a  glorious  company  of 
bright  and  beautiful  visions  —  of  hallowed  and  elevated  memories  —  of 
deep  and  tranquil  reflections,  and  of  well-grounded  and  unwavering 
faith." 

To  her  sisters,  while  upon  a  visit  to  the  city,  she  writes :  — 

"  Please  transfix  the  roses,  and  phlox,  and  eglantine,  that  I  may 
enjoy  their  beauty  when  I  return.  And  do  not  let  my  little  tree  die. 
I  have  been  so  worried  that  I  dreamed  of  it.  I  thought  some  one 
had  cut  off  the  top,  and  nearly  killed  it ;  and  I  leaned  my  face  upon 
mother,  and  said,  in  a  most  pathetic  voice,  with  tears  in  my  eyes  — 
4  If  my  tree- dies,  I  shall  die  too.'  Was  not  that  a  very  affecting 
dream  ?  I  dream  as  much  as  ever,  and  a  good  deal  about  home." 

Of  Carlyle  she  thus  speaks  :  — 

"  What  a  remarkable  power  of  laying  things  bare  has  Carlyle.  I 
have  read  histories  in  which  the  details  were  more  clear  and  syste 
matic,  I  think,  than  in  his  of  the  French  Revolution  ;  but  never  one 
in  which  the  '  unveiled  heart'  was  pictured  with  such  a  Daguerreotype 
fidelity,  nor  where  the  veil  of  its  hidden  worlds  was  so  completely 
rent,  and  the  struggles  of  Diabolus  with  the  Angel  of  Light  so  clearly 
revealed.  I  hardly  know  with  what  party  to  league  myself,  though 
I  stood  with  Mirabeau  till  he  fell ;  and  then  I  was  lost  in  the  hubbub, 
and  watched  only  the  motion  of  the  guillotine,  as  it  rose  and  fell  with 
increasing  rapidity,  till  even  the  '  sea-green  monster'  himself  left  his 
mutilated  head  upon  the  machine  he  had  worked  so  long  with  such 
dire  success." 

A  larger  proportion  of  her  time  than  usual  was  spent  from 
home  during  this  year.  In  June  she  went  to  Boston,  to  read 
proof  for  the  "Rose ;"  then  we  have  a  record  of  a  few  pleasant 
weeks  at  Marblehead,  in  the  family  of  Rev.  H.  Bacon;  at 
Maiden,  and  other  towns  in  the  vicinity.  Immediately  upon 
her  return  home,  she  started,  in  company  with  her  parents, 
upon  a  journey  to  New  York  and  Pennsylvania.  The  object 
was  to  visit  friends,  attend  the  Universalist  Convention  at 
Auburn,  N.  Y. ;  but  chiefly  to  spend  a  few  weeks  with  Mrs. 
Scott,  at  her  residence  in  Towanda,  Pennsylvania.  In  a  let 
ter  to  a  friend,  she  thus  sketches  her  journey :  — 

"  I  enjoyed  the  sail  up  the  Hudson.  We  had  a  delightful  day 
for  scene-gazing,  and  had  the  views  been  less  celebrated,  I  should 


44  MEMOIR. 

have  been  perfectly  bewildered  by  their  richness.  I  almost  thought 
Niagara  would  have  lost  a  portion  of  its  glory  on  this  account,  but  I 
was  mistaken.  Then  came  the  valley  of  the  Mohawk,  and  the  wild 
romance  of  Little  Falls  ;  after  these,  the  beautiful  inland  villages  of 
New  York — as  Utica,  Clinton,  Syracuse,  &c.  At  this  last  place, 
we  took  the  canal  for  Rochester,  and  of  all  conveyances,  I  must  pro 
nounce  this  the  most  perfectly  detestable.  My  miseries,  however, 
were  occasioned  quite  as  much  by  the  disagreeable  company  with 
which  we  were  imprisoned,  as  by  the  inconveniences  of  the  boat.  If 
it  were  not  for  mere  shame,  I  would  tell  you  I  spent  the  first  day  in 
sitting  down  at  mother's  feet  and  crying,  while  I  pretended  to  be 
busily  engaged  with  my  pen  all  the  while.  However,  those  two  un 
happy  days  ended,  we  found  ourselves  landed  in  Rochester  at  early 
dawn.  This  is  the  most  beautiful  city  I  have  ever  seen  —  Lowell 
not  excepted.  I  have  no  space  to  describe  it  here  ;  neither  Genesee 
Falls,  where  Sam  Patch  took  his  last  leap.  I  spent  two  days  with 
my  brother,  at  Greece,  six  miles  from  the  city  ;  a  public  house,  called 
the  Garden  Resort,  being  connected  with  a  large  garden,  containing 
a  green-house  and  several  hot-houses,  and  filled  with  the  rarest 
plants,  many  specimens  of  the  most  beautiful  of  which  my  brother 

gave  me  to  send  home.     Br. and  wife,  with  some  Providence 

friends,  joined  me  here,  and  by  way  of  Buffalo  we  went  to  Niagara 
together.  Buffalo  is  a  fine  city,  but,  for  beauty,  will  not  compare 
with  Rochester. 

"  The  sail  down  the  Niagara  river  was  one  of  the  most  luxurious 
seasons  of  my  life  ;  and  Niagara  itself — let  me  not  speak,  for  I  shall 
only  make  myself  ridiculous.  I  was  at  the  Falls  three  days,  during 
which  I  enjoyed  more  than  in  any  other  period  of  my  life  of  equal 
length  ;  and  many  times  a  day  does  the  memory  of  what  I  then  saw 
come  to  me  like  some  rich  and  holy  dream  of  a  better  world.  I  have 
a  stronger  desire  to  visit  Niagara  now  than  I  had  before  I  became  a 
witness  of  its  glory." 

From  Niagara  she  proceeded  to  Auburn,  and  thence  to 
Towanda,  Penn.,  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Scott.  Of  her  impres 
sions  there,  and  her  return  to  Utica,  she  speaks  briefly  as  fol 
lows,  in  her  memoir  of  her  friend  :  — 

"  In  the  autumn  of  1840,  we  spent  a  few  weeks  with  Mrs.  Scott  at 
her  pleasant  home  in  Towanda.  It  was  the  delicious  Indian  summer 
—  everywhere  beautiful,  but  thrice  glorious  when  resting  down  upon 
the  mountains  and  river  scenery  of  Pennsylvania. 

"  We  found  Mrs.  Scott  much  changed,  even  from  the  wasted  ap- 


MEMOIR.  45 

pearance  she  presented  two  years  before.  Her  health  was  very  poor, 
sometimes  quite  confining  her  to  the  house,  and  at  the  best  subtract 
ing  much  from  the  enjoyment  of  her  rides  and  rambles.  Neverthe 
less,  we  were  much  abroad,  visiting  her  favorite  haunts,  riding  over 
the  rough  mountain  roads,  exploring  the  sweet  islands  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  river,  and  realizing  in  full  the  dreams  of  previous  years. 
We  visited,  together,  the  home  of  her  childhood  ;  and  as  we  stood  by 
the  banks  of  the  Susquehannah,  and  looked  up  at  the  rugged  Allega- 
nies,  that  wall  in  that  beautiful  valley  on  either  hand,  or  cast  our  eyes 
around  upon  the  lovely  islands,  the  swift  mountain  streams,  and  the 
emerald  meadows  asleep  in  the  bosoms  of  the  hills,  she  related,  in  her 
glowing  and  piquant  manner,  the  adventures,  the  gypsyings,  and  the 
romantic  dreams  of  her  girlhood.  These  sylvan  communings  had  a 
charm  in  them,  never  to  be  forgotten.  They  were  held  with  the 
divinity  at  her  own  shrine,  and  before  her  own  incense-breathing 
altars  ;  for,  to  modify  slightly  the  words  of  another, 

'  Her  pen  had  linked  with  every  glen, 
And  every  hill,  and  every  stream, 
The  romance  of  some  poet-dream.' 

"  But  however  fascinating  to  ourself  the  reminiscences  of  this 
visit,  they  can  be  of  little  interest  to  the  general  reader.  We  found 
all  that  was  lovely  in  the  poet,  beautifully  illustrated  in  the  daily  life 
of  the  woman.  Genius  was  with  her  no  glittering  mirage,  hovering 
over  a  barren  and  arid  life ;  it  was  like  the  rainbow  mist  uplifting 
itself  from  the  bosom  of  a  pure  and  fertilizing  stream,  and  soaring  up 
to  heaven,  in  incense-wreaths  too  sweet  to  be  wasted  on  an  earthly 
shrine. 

"  We  rambled  through  the  mountain  passes,  and  bathed  our  brow  in 
the  silvery  waters  of  her  native  valley ;  we  stood  with  her  by  the  bed 
of  the  dying,  where,  on  her  own  sweet  voice,  the  departing  spirit 
was  wafted  up  in  triumph  and  rejoicing  to  the  throne  of  the  Father  ; 
we  sat  at  her  side  through  the  simple  family  devotions  that  were  wont 
to  ascend  from  her  own  fireside  ;  and  in  all  these  varied  scenes  and 
acts,  it  is  sufficient  to  say  of  her  that  the  POET  and  the  WOMAN  were 
scarcely  different  phases  of  the  same  pure,  gentle,  yet  lofty  and  fer 
vent  SOUL  ;  that  the  Priestess  wore  into  the  Holy  of  Holies  the  same 
Urim  and  Thummim  that  dazzled  the  eyes  of  those  who  saw  her  only 
in  the  outer  court  of  the  Temple ;  and  that,  as  of  the  Master  she 
loved,  so  might  it  be  said  of  this  faithful  servitor,  that, 

'  In  every  act,  in  every  thought, 
She  lived  the  precepts  that  she  taught.' 

"  On  our  return  to  Massachusetts,  we  besought  Mrs.  Scott's  com- 


46 


MEMOIR. 


pany  as  far  as  Utica,  N.  Y.,  the  residence  of  a  mutual  friend,  in 
whose  family  we  purposed  visiting.  Although  very  unwell,  she  was 
prevailed  upon,  by  our  entreaties,  to  undertake  the  journey.  The 
route  was  delightful  through  the  villages  of  Athens,  Oswego,  Ithaca, 
across  the  Cayuga  Lake  by  steamboat,  and  by  railroad  from  Auburn 
to  Utica.  We  arrived  safely ;  but  the  second  day  of  our  visit  Mrs. 
Scott  was  taken  ill,  and  for  nearly  a  week  confined  to  her  chamber. 
As  soon  as  her  strength  would  allow,  we  returned  together  to  Penn 
sylvania  ;  and,  though  fitter  by  far  for  her  couch  than  for  the  confu 
sion  and  fatigue  of  public  travelling,  her  perception  and  enjoyment 
of  the  ludicrous  was  never  more  active  than  through  the  various  adven 
tures  of  this  comfortless  journey." 

From  Utica  she  returned  home,  where  the  annual  Thanks 
giving  was  celebrated  with  feelings  of  unusual  happiness,  after 
so  long  absence. 

From  a  series  of  published  letters  we  extract  the  following 
details  of  this  pleasant  journey,  the  longest  she  ever  made. 

"  Clinton,  N.  Y.,  Sept.  2,  1840. 

"  Br.  Bacon  :  —  Shall  the  wanderer  send  home  a  token  of  the  sun 
shine  in  her  path,  of  the  bright  things  and  the  beautiful  that  flit  before 
her  in  the  fields  of  nature,  of  science,  and  of  art  ?  Here  am  I  now, 
in  '  classic  Clinton,'  at  a  distance  of  some  hundred  miles  from  my 
eastern  home,  in  a  pretty  village,  and  a  transient  resident  in  an  abode 
enlivened  by  every  charm  which  youth,  and  beauty,  and  intelligence, 
and  love,  can  throw  so  radiantly  around  it. 

"  Were  you  ever  in  the  town  of  Worcester,  Ms.,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  New  England  villages  ?  It  was  at  this  place  I  joined  the 
wild  career  of  the  '  Iron  Horse'  through  the  land  of  the  ancient  blue 
laws  to  Norwich  on  the  Connecticut.  At  Oxford,  a  few  miles  south 
of  Worcester,  the  cars  were  crowded  to  overflowing,  with  a  camp- 
meeting  congregation  ;  and  neither  a  very  serious  nor  a  very  culti 
vated  congregation  did  it  seem.  There  was  an  intermingling  of  the 
Ethiop  and  the  Indian,  wild  Irish  and  wilder  Yankees,  all  bustling 
with  excitement,  some  singing  crazy  hallelujahs  with  lips  polluted  by 
many  draughts  from  the  intoxicating  cup,  and  others  huddling  together 
in  groups,  discussing  the  various  incidents  of  the  day.  I  looked 
around  in  vain  for  one  countenance  on  which  rested  the  reflection  of 
the  smile  of  God,  or  where  lingered  one  token  of  pure  and  trustful 
communion  with  the  spirits  of  heaven.  And  I  fell  then  into  a  silent 
soliloquy  upon  the  practical  tendency  of  Camp  Meetings,  and  of  the 
propriety  or  impropriety  of  the  attendance  of  young  and  delicate 


MEMOIR.  47 

females,  where  they  are  subject,  not  only  to  the  rudeness  of  an  ex 
cited  and  sacrilegious  crowd,  but  also  to  the  physical  dangers  arising 
from  night  airs,  and  an  encampment  upon  the  damp  ground  —  dangers 
from  which  at  other  times,  and  in  other  scenes,  they  would  shrink 
with  feminine  affright  and  abhorrence.  Camp  meetings,  again,  are 
subject  to  noise,  a.nd  riot,  and  profanity,  such  as  are  not  met  in  the 
consecrated  temples  of  worship  ;  for  though  to  the  pure,  the  intellect 
ual,  and  the  refined,  and  to  those  spirits  on  whom  nature  has  bestowed 
the  dowry  of  true  and  delicate  feeling,  there  is  a  superior  sanctifica- 
tion,  and  a  most  hallowing  influence  in  the  glorious  temples  which 
God's  own  right  hand  has  built,  yet  to  the  great  mass  of  callous 
human  hearts,  sanctity  is  conferred  only  by  human  dedication,  and  by 
the  symbolic  representatives  of  worship. 

"  We  entered  the  crowded  saloon  of  the  '  Belle'  at  seven  o'clock. 
It  is  not  one  of  the  most  pleasant  scenes  in  life  to  be  the  inhabitant 
of  a  little  stifled  berth,  with  a  mass  of  beings  around  you,  some  dozen 
or  two  of  them  children,  breathing  through  a  summer  night  the  close, 
hot  air,  shared  in  common  with  them  all,  and  serenaded  by  cries  of 
infants,  the  noise  of  the  engine,  and  numerous  other  discordant  sounds 
such  as  words  can  feebly  describe.  At  such  times  sleep  is  a  friend, 
but  a  friend  often  vainly  wooed.  At  about  four  in  the  morning,  I 
perceived  that  my  companion  was  dressed  for  a  promenade  upon  deck, 
and  I  speedily  followed  her  example.  It  was  delicious  to  inhale  the 
pure  sea-breeze  once  more,  and  to  gaze  upon  the  starry  light  of  God's 
beautiful  heavens.  Morning  had  not  yet  begun  to  dawn,  and  vessels 
coming  out  from  the  bay  glided  by  us  like  tall  dark  spectres,  and  fell 
into  our  wake  as  we  hurried  on  between  the  faintly  visible  shores  of 
the  Sound. 

"  At  dawn  of  day  we  were  in  the  beautiful  bay  of  New  York.  The 
sky  was  flushed  with  a  crimson  light,  bordered  with  purple  and  gold  ; 
standing  up  against  it,  the  forests  that  lined  the  shores  looked  intensely 
green,  and  down  upon  the  calm  surface  of  the  water  was  mirrored  the 
whole  brilliant  scene,  —  a  most  glorious  panorama.  Sloops  and 
schooners  studded  the  bright  arena,  their  sails  spread  out  in  the  crim 
son  light,  looking  like  the  wings  of  a  rose-colored  swan,  as  their 
bright  prows  cut  apart  the  glowing  waves.  The  boat  drew  up  at  the 
wharf  about  seven  in  the  morning,  and  we  stood  for  the  first  time  in 
the  great  city  of  New  York. 

"  It  was  a  fine  cool  morning  when  we  next  followed  the  'Iron 
Horse'  on  his  watery  path  up  the  glorious  Hudson.  The  white  mist 
was  lifting  its  silvery  wing  from  the  river,  and  from  the  green  hills 
on  the  shore,  letting  in  the  earliest  rays  of  the  sun  upon  the  green 


48 


MEMOIR. 


waves  through  which  we  ploughed  our  course.  The  pen  of  the  trav 
eller,  and  the  pencil  of  the  artist  have  so  often  sketched  the  beautiful 
scenes  of  the  Hudson,  that  little  remains  to  be  told  by  a  pen  so  feeble 
as  mine.  Indeed,  so  often  had  I  studied  the  pictures  and  read  the 
descriptions  of  the  Palisades,  the  Highlands,  the  Catskills,  West 
Point,  Newburgh,  &c.,  that  it  seemed  to  me  like  revisiting  the  long 
absent  scenes  of  childhood.  West  Point  exceeded  my  expectations. 
It  had  more  of  the  grand,  the  unique,  and  the  beautiful,  commingled, 
than  I  had  ventured  to  imagine.  Historical  associations  were  abun 
dant,  and  romance,  also,  had  thrown  her  chains  around  the  spot.  Kos- 
ciusko,  the  noble  hero  of  the  revolution,  the  patriot  of  Poland,  and  the 
friend  of  America  —  he  has  left  a  consecration  here  which  may  not 
soon  depart.  And  Washington  and  Putnam  —  but  why  enumerate, 
or  why  attempt  to  describe  with  so  dull  a  pen  the  holy  reminiscences 
which  will  live  forever  around  this  classic  spot  ?  May  the  glory  of 
its  name  pass  down  undimmed  to  future  generations,  as  a  landmark 
of  heroism  and  of  liberty. 

"  I  entered  the  pretty  village  of  Clinton  about  sunset  of  yesterday. 
I  was  thankful  to  find  myself  so  fortunate  as  to  be  in  season  to  attend 
the  exhibition  of  the  Female  Liberal  Institute.  This  school  is  under 
the  charge  of  Miss  L.  M.  Barker,  and  I  knew  I  had  every  reason  to 
expect  high  gratification.  The  church  was  crowded  at  an  early  hour, 
and  I  learned  that  there  were  as  many  people  who  went  away  unable 
to  get  admittance,  as  were  contained  in  the  house.  I  attended  a 
theatre  once,  I  have  been  present  at  many  school  exhibitions,  but  I 
never  witnessed  any  scenic  representation  which  for  beauty  and  interest 
would  compare  with  the  evening  exercises  in  the  Free  Church  at 
Clinton.  They  commenced  with  prayer  and  music ;  after  which  orig 
inal  compositions  were  read  by  the  authors. 

******* 

"  The  music  by  the  young  ladies  was  very  fine,  and  did  credit  to 
their  instructress.  The  song  by  Miss  Jane  Barker  was  a  beautiful 
thing.  To  those  who  were  present  we  need  not  commend  the  per 
formance.  '  The  lords  of  creation'  told  some  truths  which  made  the 
gentlemen  who  were  present  look  rather  serious  and  apprehensive. 
It  was  a  spirited  execution. 

"  In  conclusion  let  me  observe,  that  the  Clinton  Female  Institute 
is  one  of  the  best  seminaries  in  our  country.  Its  worth  should  be 
better  appreciated  by  our  denomination,  and  a  more  liberal  patronage 
bestowed  on  it  by  those  who  have  daughters  to  educate.  Do  they 
know  that  their  children  would  lose  nothing  of  a  mother's  tenderness, 
nothing  of  a  mother's  watchful  anxiety,  under  the  charge  of  the  excel- 


MEMOIR.  49 

lent  and  talented  lady  who  stands  at  the  head  of  this  seminary?  Do 
they  know  that  there  the  mind  will  not  claim  the  exclusive  care  of 
the  teacher,  but  that  the  affections,  the  warm  young  fieart,  will  be  nur 
tured,  and  guarded,  and  refined  ?  Do  they  know  that  love  is  the  only 
governing  principle  by  which  they  are  directed,  and  that  the  lady  of 
whom  we  speak,  possesses  an  almost  magic  power  of  winning  trustful 
and  ardent  attachment  ?  I  speak  not  for  praise,  but  for  truth,  and  I 
beg  the  consideration  of  all  parents  who  feel  any  interest  in  the  intel 
lectual  and  moral  education  of  their  daughters.  Let  them  make  a 
trial  —  I  know  the  result. 

"  Excuse,  brother,  this  hasty  letter.  It  has  been  written  in  the 
midst  of  innocent  merriment,  and  I  am  conscious  of  having  very  im 
perfectly  expressed  myself.  Nevertheless,  I  believe  you  will  be 
pleased  to  hear  of  my  wanderings,  and  will  grant  indulgence  in  view 
of  the  circumstances  under  which  I  write.  More  anon. 

"  Very  truly  your  sister." 

"  Greece,  N.  Y.,  Sept.  8,  1840. 

"  Br.  Bacon  :  —  This  is  to  be  a  rambling  letter,  partaking  very  much 
of  the  recent  life  of  its  writer  ;  and  though  I  address  you  now  from 
western  New  York,  I  may,  before  I  finish,  find  myself  some  hundred 
miles  from  here.  Greece!  there  is  magic  in  the  name,  and  to  me,  a 
little  in  the  place.  It  is  a  small  village,  six  miles  west  of  Rochester ; 
and  the  place  at  which  I  am  for  a  few  days  a  resident,  called  the 
Garden  Resort,  is,  in  a  certain  character,  beautiful.  It  is  connected 
with  a  large  botanic  garden  and  nurseries,  where  a  lover  of  the 
minuter  beauties  of  nature  may  find  ample  means  of  gratification. 
But  apart  from  this  — '  the  waveless  horizon  !'  as  Mrs.  Hemans  used 
to  exclaim,  of  Wavertree,  I  think.  The  waveless  horizon !  I  do 
really  weary  for  a  hill,  but  no  hill  is  to  be  found.  I  confess  I  am  no 
great  lover  of  the  softly  beautiful,  and  though  the  fields  may  be  green 
and  rich,  and  the  forests  dense  and  magnificent,  there  is  a  monotony 
about  a  level  country  from  which  no  vegetable  luxuriance  can  re 
deem  it. 

"  I  cannot  suppose  that  the  details  of  my  journey  here  will  be  inter 
esting  either  to  you  or  to  the  readers  of  the  Repository.^  From  Mad 
ison  county  to  Syracuse  it  was  performed  in  a  stage-coach,  which,  if 
one  wishes  a  view  of  inland  scenery,  is  decidedly  preferable  to  either 
rail-cars  or  canal  boats.  We  had  some  fine  specimens  of  country 
luxury  on  our  route,  particularly  about  Cazenovia,  and  upon  the  bor 
ders  of  the  lake.  I  prefer  a  sheet  of  water  like  Cazenovia  lake,  to 
one  of  more  magnitude ;  for  a  mere  expanse  of  water  without  the 

5 


50  MEMOIR. 

relief  of  verdant  shores,  has  the  same  monotony  of  which  I  have  just 
finished  a  complaint. 

"  As  the  disagreeable  things  of  life  should  be  kept  in  the  back 
ground  as  much  as  possible,  I  will  pass  over  two  days  in  a  canal  boat 
though  we  passed  through  much  of  a  truly  luxuriant  country.  There 
were  some  scenes  perfectly  Arcadian ;  winding  streams,  over-arched 
by  trees,  soft  green  vales,  and  velvet  slopes  —  everything,  in  short,  to 
make  up  a  fairy  picture.  Our  landing  was  at  Rochester,  the  most 
beautiful  city  I  have  ever  seen.  The  streets  are  very  wide,  neatly 
paved,  and  kept  in  a  cleanly  condition,  which  last  particular  cannot 
be  observed  of  every  city  in  the  Empire  State.  The  dwellings  are 
generally  fine,  and  each  has  its  shaded  yard,  with  a  portico  covered 
with  honey-suckle  and  woodbine,  or  some  equally  tasteful  decoration, 
which  mingles  up  the  country  with  the  city  in  a  manner  and  degree  I 
have  never  seen  elsewhere. 

"  I  took  a  walk  one  evening  to  Genesee  Falls,  made  memorable  by 
the  last  leap  of  Sam  Patch.  The  scene  was  romantic,  but  the  water 
was  so  low  in  the  river,  that  the  ledge  of  rocks  was  completely  bare. 
It  was  the  home  of  a  waterfall  —  but  the  waterfall  was  not  at  home. 

"Niagara,  Sept.  14. 

"  I  left  Rochester  on  the  10th,  in  company  with  Br.  W.  S.  Balch 
and  lady,  and  some  friends  of  his  from  Providence.  We  reached 
Buffalo  that  evening,  and  remained  till  afternoon  of  the  next  day. 
Buffalo  is  a  pleasant  and  a  busy  city,  but  the  day  was  gloomy  and 
cold,  and  my  feelings  hardly  did  justice  to  its  beauties.  Moreover, 
my  thoughts  were  at  Niagara,  and  I  was  impatient  to  be  there  also. 

"  We  took  the  steamboat  down  the  river.  It  was  a  rich  day  to  me. 
The  beauty  of  the  shores,  and  the  deep  mighty  river,  of  an  intense 
green,  whose  hue  kept  constantly  changing  as  it  met  the  glance  of  the 
capricious  sun,  formed  one  of  the  most  original  and  unique  scenes  I 
have  ever  witnessed.  We  passed  on  the  west  side  of  Grand  Island, 
and  Navy  Island,  the  rendezvous  of  the  Canada  patriots,  took  the  rail 
road  at  Fort  Schlosser,  and  reached  the  Cataract  House  about  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon. 

"  I  have  been  here  now  three  days,  and  shall  I  give  you  my  impres 
sions  of  the  falls  ?  Nay,  rather  let  me  retrace  my  many  walks,  and 
tell  you  what  I  have  seen.  We  passed  through  two  streets,  which 
looked  like  any  other  earthly  streets,  and  stopped  upon  the  bridge 
leading  to  Bath  Island.  Here  the  only  view  we  have,  is  of  the  rapids, 
which  are,  indeed,  sufficient  of  themselves  to  awaken  the  deepest 
enthusiasm  of  the  soul.  Above  and  below  you,  the  deep  waters  are 


MEMOIR.  51 

dancing  and  leaping,  in  garments  of  mingled  silver  and  green ;  the 
under-tides  of  the  broad  and  mighty  river  are  continually  upheaving, 
and  crowding  their  angry  billows  to  the  light ;  you  stand  in  the  midst 
of  an  eternal  song,  whose  tones  are  swelling  and  deepening  above, 
around,  and  beneath  you  ;  the  spray  of  the  Great  Fall  is  veiling  your 
vision  on  the  west ;  a  scene  of  sylvan  beauty  and  quietude  is  before 
you  on  the  south  ;  the  waters  of  the  vast  inland  seas  come  rushing 
with  hosannas  of  triumph  from  the  east,  and  behind  you  only,  where 
at  such  times  they  should  be,  lie  the  works  and  the  haunts  of  men. 

"  Having  registered  our  names  at  Bath  Island,  we  crossed  another 
bridge  to  Iris  Island.  This  is  more  than  a  mile  in  circumference,  and, 
apart  from  the  wonderful  scenes  connected  with  it,  is  one  of  the  sweet 
est  spots  in  the  world.  The  soil  is  of  exceeding  richness,  giving 
birth  to  every  variety  of  flower  and  shrub.  The  trees  are  old  and 
majestic,  casting  a  heavy  shade  over  the  island,  and  kept  constantly 
fresh  by  the  shower  of  spray  that  is  falling  over  them,  and  working 
its  way  silently  to  their  roots.  From  the  bridge  we  ascend  a  little 
hill,  and  take  the  pathway  to  the  right.  Completely  embowered  by 
the  massy  branches  of  the  trees,  the  only  tokens  of  our  vicinity  to  one 
of  the  greatest  wonders  of  the  world,  were  the  occasional  glimpses  of 
foam  which  met  us  through  interstices  of  shrubbery,  the  soft  mist 
which  fell  over  our  brows  like  the  baptism  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  the 
deep,  wild,  unearthly  roar  of  the  fallen  giant,  as  he  gathers  himself  up 
for  a  less  furious  race  through  the  narrow  defiles  below. 

"  Having  reached  the  western  verge  of  the  island,  we  again  turn 
to  the  right,  down  a  steep  rugged  path  kept  always  wet  and  slippery 
by  the  spray,  and  stand  upon  a  point  directly  above  the  Cascade,  or 
middle  fall.  Here  was  our  first  view.  And  what  did  I  feel,  think 
you,  at  this  vision  of  the  mightiness  of  God  ?  I  am  ashamed  of  my 
self,  or  ought  to  be,  I  suppose,  but  really,  for  a  while  I  was  not  con 
scious  of  any  sensation.  I  did  not  feel  disappointed,  as  I  was  told  I 
should  ;  I  did  not  feel  surprised,  neither  was  I  deeply  impressed.  I 
v/ished  my  heart  to  stop  beating  till  I  could  go  away  and  be  alone  — 
I  wanted  darkness  and  solitude  around  me  —  I  could  not  feel  when  I 
was  expected  to  feel  —  I  never  like  to  equal  people's  anticipations. 
Is  not  this  a  natural  trait  in  human  character  1 

"  Our  next  course  was  along  the  side  of  the  island  to  Biddle  Stair 
case.  Here  we  descend  one  hundred  and  thirty  steps,  and  find  our 
selves  in  a  pathway  leading  to  either  fall.  We  turned  to  the  left,  and 
followed  the  narrow  pathway  along  the  ledge  to  the  foot  of  the  Great 
Crescent  Fall.  I  lingered  on  my  way  picking  the  most  beautiful 
wild  flowers  of  the  season  —  Gentians  and  Scutellarias — loving  them 


52  MEMOIR. 

better  than  ever,  that  they,  at  least,  would  be  companions  with  me  in 
my  insignificance. 

"I  think  that,  with  one  exception,  no  point  of  view  was  so  impres 
sive  to  me  as  this  from  the  foot  of  Crescent  Fall.  I  did  not  wish  for 
solitude  here,  for  solitude  was  in  my  heart  ;  I  did  not  wish  for  dark 
ness,  for  everything  was  in  oblivion  save  that  leaping  ocean.  If  ever 
I  stood  alone  with  the  Infinite,  it  was  here.  The  gentlemen  of  our 
party  ascended  the  rocks  just  below  the  fall.  The  mist  so  shrouded 
them  from  sight  that  they  appeared  to  us  like  faintly  defined  shadows 
—  spectres  wrapped  up  in  shrouds  of  vapor.  When  they  rejoined 
us,  Br.  B.  gave  us  a  glowing  description  of  a  rainbow  which  threw 
itself  within  his  grasp  —  and  I,  who  am  always  eager  in  ignis  fatuus 
pursuits,  begged  him  to  let  me  go  and  see~it.  After  some  hazardous 
toil  over  slippery  rocks,  I  stood  triumphantly  upon  the  highest,  in 
search  of  the  rainbow.  Just  then  the  wind  changed,  and  blew  the 
spray  over  us  in  torrents.  We  could  neither  see  nor  breathe,  but 
making  our  way  precipitately  back  to  our  natural  element,  stood 
before  our  party  like  two  Nereids  from  the  sea.  This  was  my  last 
attempt  to  get  hold  of  the  rainbow. 

"  In  the  evening  we  stood  upon  Terrapin  Tower,  erected  just  above 
the  centre  of  Crescent  Fall.  The  moon  shone  out  clearly,  and  lighted 
her  holy  covenant  bow  above  the  waters.  Nothing  in  nature  is  so 
purely  ethereal  as  the  lunar  bow.  The  tints  were  so  faint  and  soft, 
they  might  be  deemed  the  spirits  of  colors,  from  which  the  embodi 
ments  had  passed  away.  The  arch  was  at  first  broken,  but  soon 
became  distinct  and  perfect.  The  fascination  of  the  scene  is  utterly 
indescribable.  Moonlight  is  bewildering  in  a  —  brickyard;  —  what 
shall  we  say  of  it,  then,  at  Niagara? 

"  From  Terrapin  Tower  we  re-crossed  the  bridge  to  Iris  Island, 
ascended  its  steep  bank,  and  took  the  path  which  leads  up  the  river. 
At  first  we  walk  along  on  the  summit  of  a  steep  precipice,  many  feet 
above  the  river  ;  — the  bed  of  the  river  grows  higher  and  higher,  till 
we  come  at  last  to  a  sweet  little  cascade  which  leaps  down  between 
Moss  and  Iris  Islands,  and  goes  dancing  on  like  an  infant  to  its  moth 
er's  arms.  The  scene  here,  by  moonlight,  is  one  of  entrancing  soft 
ness  and  beauty.  The  grandeur  is  all  gone  by;  the  brain,  wearied 
with  its  efforts  to  grasp  the  magnificence  and  glory  of  the  giant  cata 
ract,  yields  itself  to  the  dreamy  loveliness  which  meets  the  view  on 
every  side  ;  the  only  sound  is  a  deep,  calm,  steady  rush,  as  of  lofty 
winds  through  a  forest  top  ;  and,  subdued  by  a  thousand  sweet  and 
sacred  influences,  the  heart  sends  forth  a  tribute  of  tears,  and  feels 
that  it  is  purified  for  many  an  after  hour. 


MEMOIR.  53 

"  On  Saturday  morning,  we  crossed  to  the  Canada  side.  The  view 
is  very  imposing  from  the  boat  up  the  river.  Probably  there  is  not  a 
finer  point  of  observation  than  this,  for  here  we  have  the  whole  at  one 
glance.  Ascending  a  winding  road  up  the  precipitous  bank,  we  turn 
to  the  left,  and  after  a  little  walk,  find  ourselves  standing  upon  Table 
Rock.  This  is  the  most  celebrated  point  of  view,  but  owing  to  pre 
vious  excitement,  I  do  not  think  it  struck  me  so  impressively  as  sev 
eral  others.  The  longer  I  stood  here,  however,  the  more  irresistible 
became  the  fascination.  There  was  a  strong  impulse  to  fall  in  with 
the  mighty  current,  and  sleep  forever  at  the  foot  of  Niagara. 

"  Having  been  provided  with  suitable  dresses  and  a  guide,  Br. 
Balch  and  I  prepared  to  pass  '  behind  the  veil'  —  in  other  words, 
under  the  Great  Fall  to  Termination  Rock,  a  distance  of  two  hun 
dred  and  thirty  feet.  The  roar  and  fury  of  the  wind  rushing  out  to 
meet  one  at  the  entrance,  is  somewhat  formidable,  and  not  a  little 
strength  is  required  to  stand  up  against  the  combined  assaults  of 
spray  and  hurricane,  and  the  intrigues  of  slippery  and  treacherous 
footholds.  The  path  is  quite  narrow,  and  through  fear  of  crowding 
my  guide  quite  off  the  rocks  into  the  fearful  abyss,  I  shrunk  closely 
to  the  wall,  till  the  torrents  came  upon  me  in  such  fury  I  was  in  dan 
ger  of  suffocation  ;  and  had  not  my  colored  friend  drawn  me  very 
gallantly  to  his  side,  I  am  not  sure  I  should  have  been  alive  to  tell 
my  tale.  We  found,  on  turning  to  look  forBr.  B.,that  he  had  disap 
peared.  Had  he  fallen?  It  was  a  fearful  thought  —  I  turned  a 
terrified  look  at  my  guide,  but  he  only  smiled  mischievously,  and 
replied  that  at  any  rate  we  would  go  to  Termination  Rock.  Resolved 
not  to  be  daunted  by  the  singularity  of  my  situation,  and  the  awful 
fury  and  thunder  of  the  elements  around  me,  I  hastened  onward, 
catching  a  breath  when  it  was  practicable,  and  when  it  was  not, 
thinking  of  the  dearest  friends  I  have  in  the  world  as  though  it  were 
for  the  last  time.  Just  as  my  resolution  began  to  fail,  and  I  was 
going  to  be  humble  enough  to  solicit  my  guide  to  return,  he  exclaimed, 
pulling  me  forward,  'Here  is  Termination  Rock!  we  can  go  no 
further.'  I  had  not  dreamed  of  being  so  near  the  end  of  my  watery 
pilgrimage,  and  having  learned  some  lessons  of  distrust  in  my  deal 
ings  with  guides,  £c.,  I  looked  at  him  rather  sceptically  and  queried, 
'  Is  it?'  To  convince  me1,  he  placed  my  hand  upon  the  rock,  and 
having  felt  around  it,  to  be  sure  I  could  get  no  further,  I  turned  away 
satisfied,  and  hastened  back  to  earth  ;  not,  however,  without  pausing 
a  few  moments  to  consider  the  actual  terror  of  my  situation.  To 
stand  thus  in  a  narrow  and  slippery  pathway,  walled  on  one  side  by 
a  stupendous  ledge  alive  with  torrents,  and  on  the  other  by  an  impen- 


54  MEMOIR. 

etrable  mass  of  rushing  foam,  which  shuts  out  even  the  light  of 
heaven,  seemed  to  me  no  ordinary  or  safe  position.  Beside  other 
impediments  to  breathing,  there  is  a  strong  smell  of  sulphur  within 
this  cave,  which  occasioned  some  wag,  in  one  of  the  Albums,  to  ex 
press  his  belief  that  it  is  the  entrance  to  the  infernal  regions.  I  must 
not  forget  to  observe  that,  in  emerging  to  daylight,  we  found  our 
friend  safely  awaiting  our  return,  after  which  he  also  entered  and 
explored  an  arm's  reach  beyond  me. 

"  But  time  and  space  forbid  a  longer  description  of  my  adventures. 
There  are  many  scenes  of  interest  disconnected  with  the  falls,  which 
I  have  visited  —  such  as  Lundy's  Lane  battle-ground,  Church  Service 
of  Her  Majesty's  93d  Regiment — (a  most  imposing  scene  by  the 
way,)  the  Whirlpool,  Mineral  Springs,  and  the  like.  This  morning 
I  have  been  out  to  take  a  farewell  view.  A  most  glorious  rainbow 
came  down  upon  the  waters  as  a  token  and  a  benediction  to  encour 
age  me  onward  ;  and  with  a  heart  of  heaviness,  and  a  melancholy 
feeling  that  Niagara  was  forever  lost  to  me,  I  turned  slowly  and  sadly 
away." 

"  Towanda,  Oct.  15,  1840. 

"  Br.  Bacon:  —  Immediately  after  writing  you  my  last,  I  was 
present  at  the  United  States  Convention  of  Universalists,  at  Auburn, 
N.  Y.  But  as  you  have  long  since  received  and  published  the 
records  of  the  meeting,  it  will  be  of  little  use  for  me,  at  this  late  hour, 
to  give  you  a  long  description  of  its  proceedings.  It  had  its  social 
joys  as  usual,  greetings  of  ancient  friends,  and  congratulations  of 
such  as  had  been  previous  strangers  ;  warm  graspings  of  warm  hands, 
and  cordial  utterances  of  cordial  hearts.  The  services  were  all  in 
teresting,  and  .of  a  nature  to  elevate  and  refine.  Strangers  who  were 
present  will  remember  with  gratitude  the  hospitality  of  the  friends  at 
Auburn,  no  less  than  the  beauty  and  tranquillity  of  the  place.  They 
will  remember,  too,  the  happy  throng  of  worshippers  who  gathered 
about  the  sanctuaries,  and  were  fed  with  the  bread  of  life  from 
heaven. 

"  It  is  a  pretty  ride  from  Auburn  to  Ithaca.  The  road  is  almost  a 
perfect  level  through  the  whole  distance,  with  a  wide  extent  of  rich 
country  on  one  side,  and  the  wooded  shores  of  the  lake  upon  the  other. 
From  the  summit  of  the  hill  at  Ithaca  I  had  the  most  delightful  view 
I  ever  witnessed.  The  sweet  Lake  of  Cayuga,  winding  away  among 
the  wild  old  hills,  and  reflecting  the  face  of  heaven  with  all  its  smiles  ; 
the  gallant  '  Simeon  De  Witt,'  ploughing  the  azure  tide,  and  the 
pretty  village,  with  its  elegant  edifices  rising  upon  the  hill-side,  made 
one  of  the  sweetest  pictures  in  the  world. 


MEMOIR.  OO 

"  Owego  is  another  fine  village  ;  and  here  I  was  first  introduced  to 
the  beautiful  Susquehannah.  You  will  laugh  at  my  epithets  of '  fine,' 
and  '  sweet,'  and  '  beautiful,'  but  I  assure  you  there  is  no  getting  along 
without  them  in  description.  Were  I  in  a  mood  of  poetry  this  morn 
ing,  I  would  sing  the  charms  of  the  winding  stream  and  the  giant 
hills ;  but  to  speak  of  the  Susquehannah  and  the  Alleghanies  even 
in  sober  prose  will  be  enough  —  one  must  judge  from  their  very  names 
that  they  are  beautiful. 

"  The  Susquehannah  is  a  shallow  river,  but  its  bed  is  bright  with 
sand  and  glittering  pebbles,  and  all  along  its  course  it  is  broken  and 
turned  aside,  at  intervals,  by  little  grassy  islands,  shaded  with  moss- 
grown  trees,  and  carpeted  with  flowers ;  a  thousand  silvery  creeks 
run  singing  to  its  bosom,  wild  tales  of  their  mountain  homes  ;  and 
the  stout  old  sycamores  bend  their  vernal  brows  to  the  music  of  its 
eternal  hymn.  Dear  Susquehannah  !  I  have  learned  to  love  thee  as 
I  love  my  own  native  streams ;  and  if  the  favorites  of  nature  may  be 
adopted,  thou  shall  have  an  equal  dowry  of  my  life-long  affection. 

"  The  Alleghanies  are  a  bold,  rich  line  of  mountains,  standing  out 
in  their  beautiful  pride,  and  curving  the  gentle  river  at  their  will. 
Sometimes  they  thwart  its  course,  and  send  it  back  for  many  a  rug 
ged  mile  to  some  wilder  and  more  romantic  pass,  leaving  the  soft 
vales,  that  would  have  loved  its  companionship,  to  the  tamer  converse 
of  the  birds  and  winds. 

"  Dense  forests,  that  man  has  never  yet  dared  disturb,  make  their 
dwellings  upon  these  mountains ;  and  while  I  now  watch  them  from 
my  window,  it  is  after  the  spirit  of  autumn  has  thrown  over  them  her 
'  coat  of  many  colors,'  —  a  token  of  her  love.  The  mellowness  of 
October  sunshine  is  not  the  only  light  that  makes  them  glorious.  On 
a  cool,  moonlight  evening,  the  white  mists  will  rise  up  like  a  spirit 
from  the  river,  and  bend  over  them,  wrapping  them  in  a  mantle,  ethe 
real  as  the  '  drapery  of  dreams.' 

"  It  was  a  warm  day  in  October,  when  I  ascended  the  most  beauti 
ful  of  the  Tovvanda  hills.  It  was  but  a  path,  and  a  very  rugged  one, 
through  which  Julia  guided  our  patient  quadruped .  Over  the  stones, 
and  ledges,  and  rotten  timbers,  that  obstructed  our  way,  the  good 
old  fellow  toiled  with  willing  steps,  encouraged  by  the  approval  which 
reached  him  from  behind,  and  eager  for  the  rest  which  he  flattered 
himself  was  before  him.  Sometimes  we  were  open  to  the  burning 
rays  of  the  sun,  and  sometimes  we  passed  beneath  the  shade  of  fra 
grant  pines,  where  the  grass  grew  soft  and  green,  and  the  ruby-like 
winter-berries  gleamed  among  the  faded  leaves.  The  wood-aster,  in 
its  morning  garb  of  purple,  stood  bowed  like  a  desolate  child  of  sor 
row —  the  last  of  the  race  of  flowers.  The  soft  wind  crept  beneath 


56  MEMOIR. 

the  scalloped  oak-leaves  that  lay  crumbling  upon  the  ground,  or  shook 
the  silvery  aspen  that  stood  in  its  light,  coquettish  garb  beside  the 
solemn  pine,  or  whispered  mysterious  words  to  the  witch-hazel  in  its 
autumn  dress  of  green  and  gold. 

"  The  summit  reached  at  length,  we  bridled  Rosinante  to  a  young 
sapling,  and  buffetted  our  way  through  the  tangled  bushes  to  the 
brow  of  the  mountain.  There  is  a  ledge  of  red  mineral  crowning  this 
hill,  and  it  overhangs  its  perpendicular  sides  with  a  bold  threatening 
posture,  which  makes  one  shrink  from  passing  along  the  base,  lest  he 
be  crushed  by  its  giant  leap.  Upon  this  platform,  which  looks  as 
though  it  might  have  been  the  stand  from  which  the  Titans  delivered 
their  martial  orations  when  they  warred  with  the  Thunderer,  we  sat 
down  and  had  communion  with  the  universe. 

"  Still,  solemn,  glorious,  was  the  whole  world.  The  air  seemed 
palpable  with  richness.  The  wild  caw  !  caw !  of  the  lonely  crow, 
and  the  rustle  of  the  tree-tops  were  melody  enough.  We  did  not 
care  to  speak  —  to  live  was  all  we  asked.  From  the  recesses  of  the 
hills  above  us,  came  down  their  smiling  daughter  —  bright  Susque- 
hannah  —  opening  her  arms  to  embrace  a  little  tree-fringed  isle,  and 
hastening  onward  again,  holding  it  fast  to  her  bosom,  and  singing  it 
to  rest.  The  fertile  plains,  and  slopes,  clusters  of  white  houses,  the 
bridge  that  spanned  the  river  with  its  snowy  arch,  the  mountains 
vicinal  and  remote,  made  up  the  scene  we  loved.  Peace  be  with  it 
forever  ! 

"  I  have  spoken  of  the  beautiful  and  majestic  scenery  of  northern 
Pennsylvania  ;  will  it  be  amiss  to  add  one  word  respecting  the  hospi 
tality  of  its  inhabitants?  At  many  of  the  taverns  in  this  part  of  the 
country,  I  have  noticed  upon  the  sign-boards  the  inviting  terms, 
'Traveller's  Rest,'  '  Stranger's  Home,'  &c.  These  terms  might  well 
be  applied  to  every  dwelling  which  I  visited  ;  and  it  is  characteristic 
of  the  villages  here,  that  if  strangers  enter  them  for  a  transient  resi 
dence,  they  are  immediately  waited  on  by  the  villagers,  and  earnestly 
invited  to  their  houses.  Parties  are  given  in  succession  by  them  all, 
which  the  stranger  understands  as  a  tribute  of  respect  to  himself. 
This  is  true  hospitality,  and  shows  a  commendable  cultivation  of  kind 
feelings.  What  is  a  little  remarkable,  also,  religious  differences  are 
not  regarded,  but  the  stranger  is  welcomed,  be  he  Jew  or  Gentile, 
bond  or  free. 

"  Utica,  Oct.  20. 

' '  Jolting  along  in  a  stage-coach  over  one  of  those  frightful  '  Nar 
rows,'  which  are  met  so  often  among  the  Alleghanies,  we  suddenly 
came  in  sight  of  the  valley  of  Sheshequin. 


MEMOIR.  57 

"  '  There,'  said  Julia,  '  is  my  childhood's  home  ;  is  it  not  beauti 
ful?' 

"  '  Very,  very  beautiful,'  was  the  reply,  as  I  turned  to  gaze  enchant- 
ingly  upon  its  loveliness ;  and  the  words  of  Moore  came  instantly  to 
mind,  with  a  peculiar  power  and  expressiveness  : 

'  There  is  not  in  this  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet, 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet ; 
Oh !  the  last  ray  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart !' 

"  Below  us,  far  down  a  precipice,  lined  with  shrubs  and  Irish  huts, 
ran  the  silvery  river  of  our  love.  In  its  bosom  rested  a  pretty  island, 
with  slant  trees  reclining  above  the  waves.  A  sand-bar  reached  from 
this  to  the  shore,  forming,  in  the  dry  seasons,  an  excellent  path,  and 
always  sufficiently  near  to  the  surface  of  the  river  to  tempt  the  feet 
of  an  untrammelled  mountain  maiden,  in  her  search  for  poetry  and 
peace.  This  little  isle  was  a  favorite  retreat  of  the  girl-poet,  in  the 
wild  luxuriance  of  her  early  life.  Here  the  shadows  of  the  green 
trees  fell  soothingly  upon  her  brow,  and  here  her  eyes  gazed  down 
into  the  shadowed  water,  and  found  a  rich  similitude  of  their  own 
soft,  melancholy  depths. 

"  '  The  vale  of  Sheshequin  is  as  beautiful  as  Wyoming,  only  much 
smaller,'  remarked  my  friend.  '  It  is  a  comparison  often  instituted  by 
travellers.' 

"  '  I  should  love  it  better  for  being  small,'  was  the  rejoinder;  'I 
love  little  scenes  and  little  things  the  world  all  over.  There  is  sublim 
ity  in  space,  but  beauty  is  made  up  of  little  parts.  A  tree,  a  knoll 
of  flowers,  a  singing  brook,  a  bird,  a  butterfly,  a  bee  —  are  not  these 
a  picture?  I  love  things  near;  a  wavy  horizon  is  beautiful,  but  give 
me  to  dwell  in  the  shelter  of  hills,  where  the  far-off  is  not  known. 
I  love  not  distant  things  ;  fancy  must  bring  the  beloved  ever  near  me, 
or  I  cannot  feel  for  them,  and  they  are  forgotten.' 

"  From  the  river  at  Sheshequin,  smooth,  rich  lands  slope  off  to  the 
mountains,  giving  place  to  a  pretty  village  of  white  houses,  separ 
ated  by  cultivated  farms.  The  hills  are  chiefly  wooded  to  the  sum 
mit  ;  one  or  two  only  are  bare  to  the  sunbeams,  breaking  open  the 
forest  to  a  pleasing  variety  of  scene.  A  deep  gorge  in  one  of  the 
mountains  affords  a  channel  to  the  '  wild  mountain  stream,'  so 
sweetly  sung  by  '  I  know  who,'  —  and  is  filled  up  with  grand  old  for 
est  trees,  and  darkness  like  the  witchery  of  twilight. 

"  Leaving  Sheshequin  with  a  sigh,  we  were  hurried  on  our  winding 
way  to  the  precincts  of  the  Empire  state.  I  shall  never  forget  one 
scene  that  broke  on  us  at  night,  as  we  drew  near  to  Owego.  We 


53  MEMOIR. 

were  upon  the  banks  of  the  river.  Far  up  its  winding  course  rose  a 
hill,  and  upon  the  brow  of  that  hill  rose  a  light  —  a  yellow  gorgeous 
light,  oblong  at  first,  and  flaming  like  a  fire.  Its  reflection  in  ihe 
river  was  like  a  lance  of  silver  quivering  in  the  unknown  depths  of 
the  night.  The  stars  looked  on  in  silence.  Dimly  defined,  the  black 
trees  stood  giant-like  against  the  sky  —  virgins  with  their  lamps, 
awaiting  the  bridegroom.  The  company  in  the  stage  were  silent,  and 
we  adored. 

"  A  half-day  on  Lake  Cayuga  —  what  shall  be  said  of  it?  What 
shall  be  said  of  the  broad  green  lake,  with  its  varied  shores?  Seated 
upon  the  deck  of  the  elegant  steamboat,  chatting  as  we  went,  Julia  and 
I  passed  one  of  the  richest  days  of  our  lives.  Silence  was  upon  the 
waters,  and  mirrored  in  their  green  depths  lay  the  rainbow-dyed  wood 
lands,  that  fringed  the  shores.  Pretty- villages,  with  their  white-church 
spires  and  green  elms,  intervened  between  the  wilder  country  of  for 
ests,  charming  us  with  a  continued  variety  of  rich  and  beautiful  scenes. 
The  wild  ducks  were  sailing  along  near  the  shores,  or  flapping  their 
white  wings  above  the  waves.  All  the  world  was  shut  out  —  we  were 
on  a  little  sea  alone  —  alone,  save  the  company  of  travellers  that 
wandered  about  us  on  deck,  making  up  little  groups,  on  which  we 
occasionally  commented  sagely,  calling  to  our  aid  the  philosophies  of 
Lavater  and  Gall,  and  arriving  ever  at  incontrovertible  conclusions. 

"At  Auburn  we  seated  ourselves  in  the  cars  for  Utica.  The 
travel  on  the  Western  rail-road  is  immense.  The  bustle  at  the  car- 
houses  is  sufficient  to  craze  a  stoic,  would  the  anxiety  of  looking  after 
baggage  allow  one  to  be  disturbed  by  it.  The  only  incident  that  dis 
turbed  the  serenity  of  our  ride  was  of  a  painful  character,  yet  one  of 
frequent  occurrence.  Four  sheep  were  run  over,  and  had  their  legs 
broken,  and  their  bodies  sadly  mutilated.  Poor  things  !  they  looked 
at  us  so  reproachfully  as  we  passed,  I  had  no  heart  for  the  remainder 
of  the  ride. 

"  Our  sojourn  at  Utica  has  been  in  a  sick  chamber  ;  poor  Julia  the 
sufferer,  and  I  the  nurse.  Thank  Heaven,  she  is  recovering,  and  the 
cloud  is  passing  off  from  my  soul.  I  return  with  her  to  Pennsylva 
nia.  You  may  hear  from  me  once  more  ere  my  return  to  Massachu 
setts.  Very  truly  your  sister." 

1:  Clinton,  Nov.  8,  1840. 

"  Br.  Bacon:  —  When  last  I  wrote  you,  I  was  on  the  point  of 
starting  for  Pennsylvania,  with  an  invalid  friend.  Nature  seemed 
kind  to  us,  for  never  shone  there  a  fairer  autumn  day,  than  that  on 
which  we  rode  to  Syracuse.  The  rate  at  which  they  travel  on  the 
western  railroads,  allows  a  passenger,  if  he  have  a  quick  eye  for  the 


MEMOIR.  59 

beautiful,  to  note  whatever  of  interest  lies  along  the  way.  I  well 
remember  one  little  scene  which  brought  me  a  strange  thrill  of  home 
sickness,  it  was  so  like  the  Indian  summer  landscapes  of  dear  New 
England.  '  A  nut-brown  slope,'  glowing  in  the  yellow  beams  "of  the 
setting  sun,  crowned  with  lordly  trees,  whose  vestures  were  of  green 
and  crimson,  and  gold,  and  carpeted  with  the  withered  leaves  of  the 
walnut  and  the  fading  sycamore,  glided  past  me  like  the  fairy  pic 
tures  of  a  magic  lantern,  yet  not  without  leaving  an  impression  of 
beauty  upon  my  mind,  which  long  years  will  fail  to  obliterate  —  an 
impression  so  clear  and  bright,  and  so  very  true  to  the  sweet  original. 

"I  dreaded  coming  once  more  to  those  formidable  mountain  roads 
to  which  I  had  so  complacently  said  adieu  some  two  weeks  before. 
We  reached  Towanda,  however,  without  accident,  but  instead  of  the 
warm  welcome  and  warm  dinner  we  were  expecting,  we  found  the 
house  locked,  and  our  friends  all  absent.  We  learned,  after  several 

fruitless  inquiries,  that  Dr. had  gone  in  quest  of  us  that  morning, 

and  had  missed  us  on  the  route.  Here  was  one  dilemma.  Another 
was  how  to  get  admittance  into  the  house.  Thank  fortune !  there 
are  more  entrances  than  one,  as  many  a  rogue  has  discovered  ;  and 
we  seemed,  in  this  instance,  to  be  illuminated  with  a  portion  of  the 
lucky  sagacity  belonging  to  that  ancient  race. 

"  Autumn  is  a  coquettish  dame,  after  all.  She  attires  herself  in 
magnificent  beauty,  and  cheats  us  into  confidence  by  her  bland  and 
serious  benignity ;  but  no  sooner  do  we  acknowledge  ourselves  her 
humble  slaves  forever,  than  she  knits  her  matronly  countenance  into 
gloomy  frowns,  and  assails  us  with  all  "the  virulence  of  a  shrew.  I 
was  just  beginning  to  flatter  myself  that  I  was  an  especial  favorite, 
and  in  this  happy  state  of  feeling  took  seat  in  the  pretty  carriage 
alluded  to  in  my  last  letter,  for  a  thirty  miles'  ride  to  Owego.  For  a 
few  hours  the  sun  smiled  on  us  faintly,  but  about  noonday  the  white, 
feathery  flakes  were  covering  us  with  mantles  beautiful  as  ermine. 
Our  route  was  through  what  is  usually  termed  a  new  country ;  burnt 
stumps  were  yet  remaining  in  the  fields,  and  log  cabins  (realities, 
and  no  shams,  as  Carlyle  would  say)  peeped  out  from  every  bit  of ' 
pine  woods  that  had  been  suffered  to  survive  the  general  vandalism. 
The  only  beautiful  things  I  saw  in  all  that  ride  were  a  few  green 
hemlocks  crowned  with  chaplets  of  new-fallen  snow. 

"  Every  little  village  that  we  passed  containing  a  half-dozen  dwell 
ing  houses,  was  ornamented  with  two  '  liberty  poles,'  one  of  hickory, 
the  other  of  pine.  A  '  log  cabin'  was  usually  perched  upon  the  top 
of  the  latter,  reminding  me  of  the  house  which  Jack  the  giant-killer 
is  said  to  have  found  at  the  top  of  his  bean  vine.  We  passed  by  all 


60  MEMOIR. 

the  taverns  bearing  coonskin  signs,  or  other  political  insignias,  and 
stopped  at  a  quiet  looking  domicile  which  seemed  professedly  neutral. 

"  A  country  tavern  is  sui  generis  in  character.  There  is  no  other 
house  of  refuge  at  all  similar.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  worth  the  while 
to  give  a  slight  description.  The  room  into  which  I  was  conducted 
seemed  to  be  kitchen,  dining-room  and  saloon-general.  There  was 
no  appearance  of  paint  about  the  house,  but  the  yellow  deal  boards 
were  clean  and  polished,  and  the  floor  bore  traces  of  soap  and  sand. 
Lines  were  strung  across  the  ceiling,  on  which  hung  circles  of  pump 
kin,  strings  of  apple,  skeins  of  yarn,  and  newly  dyed  stockings.  A 
bed  stood  in  a  recess  beside  the  chimney,  half  hidden  by  a  checked 
curtain  which  hung  before  it.  A  huge  log  rested  on  the  iron  animals 
appropriated  to  such  service,  and  ashes  lay  scattered  profusely  over 
the  blue  stone  hearth. 

"  The  landlady  was  a  stout,  rosy-cheeked  young  woman,  just  en 
tered  upon  her  matrimonial  career.  She  rose  and  curtsied  to  me  as  I 
entered,  offered  me  a  chair,  and  bustled  about  to  disengage  me  from 
my  hat  and  cloak.  Having  performed  all  the  kind  offices  which  my 
situation  demanded,  she  informed  me,  with  a  simpering  sweetness, 
that  she  should  build  a  fire  in  the  other  room  for  the  new  folks  —  she 
never  could  bear  to  have  them  about  where  she  was  cooking. 

"  The  process  of  ignition  having  been  successfully  performed  in  the 
'other  room,'  I  was  invited  to  take  a  seat  with  the  '  men  folks.' 
This  honorable  apartment  proved  to  be  the  bar-room.  On  the  posts 
of  the  bar  were  pasted  notices  of  '  mass  meetings,'  '  truths  for  the 
people,'  etc.,  etc.,  in  large  capitals,  pointed  off  with  'marks  of  admi 
ration,'  as  we  used  to  call  them  at  school.  One  forlorn  little  sheet 
lay  upon  the  bench,  filled  with  that  incendiary  trash  which  takes  the 
name  of  politics.  I  have  forgotten  now  to  which  '  party'  it  be 
longed.  The  '  men-folks,'  who  proved  to  be  merely  my  compagnon 
du  voyage,  offered  me  a  low  arm-chair  which  stood  before  the  fire. 
The  landlord  soon  appeared  with  his  hands  full  of  mammoth  apples, 
evidently  belonging  to  the  class  of  None-so-goods,  Seek-no-fur  liters,  or 
Ne-plus-ultras,  which  he  laid  temptingly  before  us.  An  economical 
expedient,  thought  I,  to  give  us  apples  before  dinner.  After  chatting 
awhile,  and  getting  comfortably  warm  after  a  tedious  ride  in  the 
snow  and  wind,  our  alimentiveness  was  gratified  by  a  summons  to 
dinner. 

"  This  meal  had  a  character  of  its  own.  I  noticed  a  struggling 
smile  upon  the  countenance  of  my  friend  as  he  passed  me  a  plate  of 
hot  cream  cakes.  '  Our  host,'  he  remarked,  '  is  one  of  those  tender 
hearted  men,  who  think  it  a  sin  to  kill  poor  innocent  animals  for  food.' 


MEMOIR.  61 

A  cup  of  tea,  two  varieties  of  sweetmeats,  a  loaf  of  tea-cake,  and  an 
apology  for  pumpkin  pie,  completed  the  course ;  much  such  a  table 
as  we  find  in  a  Yankee  farm-house  at  tea-time. 

"  Have  you  ever,  Br.  Bacon,  travelled  in  New  York,  in  late  au 
tumn  or  early  spring  —  the  season  of  mud  ?  If  not,  it  will  be  quite 
impossible  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the  condition  of  the  roads  at  these 
times.  I  started  from  Owego  in  the  stage  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  rode  till  one  of  the  next  morning,  over  what  is  called 
one  of  the  best  thoroughfares  in  the  state.  But  such  joltings  and 
thumpings  were  never  before  endured.  A  truce  to  rich  soils,  thought 
I,  if  we  must  take  such  mud  with  them.  Give  me  the  sand  and 
gravel  of  New  England  —  the  hard  roads  and  rough  old  hills.  How 
local  prejudices  will  cling  to  one  through  all  wanderings  and  in  all 
places !  How  much  better  everything  is  in  our  own  country  than 
elsewhere  !  The  rivers  are  so  much  clearer,  the  flowers  are  so  much 
more  abundant,  and  the  people,  too,  are  so  much  more  moral  and 
intelligent.  I  have  vexed  myself,  many  a  time  during  my  journey, 
by  breaking  off  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and  losing  all  recollection 
of  my  subject,  at  hearing  the  name  '  Massachusetts'  spoken,  by  some 
fellow-passenger  in  a  distant  part  of  the  steamboat  or  car,  while  can 
vassing  the  probable  results  of  election. 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  the  Grecian  mythology  contains  any 
class  of  divinities  presiding  over  mud-holes,  but  I  do  think  I  might 
have  stood  for  a  personification  of  a  mud-nymph,  on  my  arrival  at  this 
village  last  week.  Fortunately,  there  are  some  sagacious  people  in 
this  world,  who  do  not  judge  of  character  from  appearance,  or  I 
should  have  been  mistaken  for  a  mere  earth-worm ;  whereas,  they 
treated  me  as  though  they  thought  I  had,  at  least,  some  aspirations 
after  a  soul. 

"  For  geological  research,  I  know  no  portion  of  our  country  more 
interesting  than  New  York.  Fossils  and  petrifactions  abound 
throughout  the  state.  Spars,  crystals,  and  ores  are  of  every-day 
occurrence.  In  a  ramble  of  yesterday,  one  of  my  companions  found 
a  perfect  impression  of  a  butterfly  upon  shale.  Following  the  wind 
ings  of  a  delightful  little  stream,  we  came  to  a  ledge  of  ironized  stone, 
whose  surfaces  were  everywhere  impressed  with  shells,  worms,  and 
leaves.  The  specimens  I  bore  away  were  more  precious  to  me  than 
so  many  lumps  of  a  far  richer  mineral.  They  are  building  the  State 
Lunatic  Asylum,  at  Utica,  of  vermicular  limestone,  brought  from  an 
extensive  quarry  at  Trenton.  It  seems  to  be  a  mass  of  petrified 
angle-worms,  inwrought  with  lime  and  shale.  Surely,  there  are 
6 


62  MEMOIR. 

'  sermons  in  stones  ;'  and  for  magnificent  speculations  who  could  ask 
a  richer  field  than  these  vast  quarries  of  petrified  animals?  Under 
stand  me  —  I  speak  of  mental  speculations,  not '  out  of  the  pocket.' 

"  There  is  a  good  deal  of  fine  local  story  about  Clinton,  and  some  one 
of  antiquarian  taste  should  take  measures  to  rescue  it  from  oblivion. 
Many  reminiscences  of  the  powerful  Oneidas  are  of  melancholy  and 
romantic  interest.  Scott  would  have  desired  no  richer  material  than 
is  furnished  in  the  history  of  the  Kirkland  family,  to  have  woven  a 
tale  of  thrilling  interest  and  beautiful  originality.  The  old  family 
mansion  standing  among  trees  upon  the  hill-side,  and  the  small 
enclosure  of  graves  behind,  where  repose,  in  one  still,  holy  slumber, 
the  ashes  of  the  beloved  missionary,  his  beautiful  and  eccentric 
daughter,  and  the  old  Oneida  chief,  would  present  outlines  for  a  rich 
picture  from  the  pen  of  the  antiquarian  wizard  of  the  north.  There 
is  talent  here  which  should  be  at  work  upon  some  of  these  fine  old 
fragments. 

"  Utica,  Nov.  15. 

"  Prithee  excuse  me,  should  my  ideas  prove  somewhat  languid  this 
early  morn,  for  the  evening  before  last  I  rode  some  eight  or  ten  miles 
to  a  wedding,  and  last  evening  was  again  in  the  excitement  of  a 
party.  A  wedding  is  not  so  rare  an  occurrence  as  to  require  a  formal 
description,  but  I  assure  you  the  ride  which  took  us  there,  was  some 
thing  altogether  novel  and  unique  —  to  me,  I  mean,  for  the  residents 
are  accustomed  to  such  ,thitigs.  We  travelled,  at  the  rate  of  about 
two  miles  an  hour,  through  a  succession  of  fathomless  mud-holes, 
alternating  with  corduroy  roads,  (which  are  constructed,  you  know, 
of  logs  thrown  across  the  street,  with  little  regard  to  equality  of  sur 
face,)  and  in  a  portion  of  the  day  when  our  best  guide  was  the  light 
of  our  eyes.  But  with  good  drivers,  and  good  resolution,  we  arrived 
safely,  the  very  hour  we  were  wanted  ;  for  upon  our  arrival  depended 
the  tying  of  the  knot.  They  do  these  things  sans  ceremonie  in  New 
York.  A  two  weeks'  publishment  is  not  considered  necessary  to 
inform  the  public  of  the  matrimonial  intentions  of  the  parties  ;  and  I 
doubt  whether  in  New  England  it  is  not  somewhat  superfluous.  I 
am  sure,  at  least,  that  the  public  usually  receive  the  information 
without  the  assistance  of  a  town-clerk  ;  whether  it  be  always  authen 
tic,  may,  perhaps,  be  questioned. 

"  The  '  party'  alluded  to  was  given  by  Br.  T.  D.  C ,  to  the 

young  people  of  his  society,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  from  their 
midst.  It  was  a  social  little  gathering  of  warm-hearted  friends ;  and 
the  kindness  with  which  they  spoke  of  their  pastor,  and  the  regret 
which  they  manifested  for  his  loss,  were  evidences  of  the  existence 


MEMOIR.  63 

of  those  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  which  are  so  necessary  to  endear 
a  minister  to  his  people. 

"  New  York  City,  Nov.  20. 

"  I  have  been  a  sojourner  in  this  city  of  Manhatta,  as  Irving  would 
choose  to  designate  it,  for  the  space  of  five  days.  As  a  city  I  like 
New  York,  principally  for  two  things  :  the  width  of  its  streets,  and 
the  hospitality  of  its  inhabitants.  I  am  not  designing  to  '  puff'  the 
good  denizens  of  that  goodly  city  ;  but  I  do  not  like  to  pass  by  in  silence 
what  seems  to  me  a  distinguishing  and  very  beautiful  feature.  I  love 
the  free,  cordial,  sincere  manners  of  the  people,  so  little  restrained  by 
ceremony,  and  yet  so  truly  polite.  I  love  many  things  about  them, 
which  I  have  not  space  here  to  specify. 

"  On  Monday  evening  my  friends  took  me  to  the  Rotunda,  where 
Catherwood  is  exhibiting  his  beautiful  panoramas  of  Rome  and  the 
Bay  of  Isles.  I  think  I  here  first  fully  realized  the  magic  power  of 
that  art  which  can  throw  an  illusion  upon  the  senses  too  strong  for 
reason  to  dispel.  To  feel  myself  in  any  other  place  than  Rome, 
while  gazing  upon  that  wonderful  representation,  was  impossible. 
Did  not  the  narrow  streets  lay  directly  beneath  me,  with  their  bronze 
statues,  and  their  processions  of  human  beings  ?  Were  not  the  crumb 
ling  ruins  and  isolated  arches  standing  before  me  upon  the  hill-side  ? 
Saw  I  not  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars,  the  splendid  ruins  of  the  Colis 
eum,  and  the  magnificent  Church  of  St.  Peter  ?  The  '  golden  Tiber' 
—  lay  it  not  there  like  a  thing  of  life,  winding  about  amidst  the 
Roman  hills,  and  losing  itself  in  the  hazy  distance?  Saw  I  not  also 
the  distant  Alps,  the  Apennines  more  vicinal,  and  the  Tarpeian  rock 
almost  at  my  very  feet? 

"  We  had  a  musical  soiree  at  Br.  Sawyer's  last  evening.  The 
performers  were  all  foreigners  —  German,  Italian,  and  Spanish. 
The  rich,  mellow  voices  of  the  singers,  the  magical  execution  of  the 
pianist,  and  the  low  dulcet  tones  of  the  guitar,  were  enough  to  sub 
due  even  so  unmusical  a  piece  of  workmanship  as  myself.  We  had 
a  sweet  song  from  the  Italian.  The  only  words  I  could  interpret 
were  '  cara,'  and  '  amore? 

"  TJniversalism  seems  very  prosperous  in  this  city.  '  All  things 
work  together  for  good  to  those  who  love  God,'  it  is  said.  '  New 
Jerusalem'  certainly  looks  not  very  desolate  in  the  absence  of  the 
deserter ;  neither  does  '  Mystery  Babylon'  seem  miraculously  illu 
minated.  A  few  shouts  of  defiance  have  been  recently  heard  from 
some  valiant  Babylonish  sentinel,  and  occasionally  a  little  trumpeter 
sends  forth  a  warning  blast  — '  Beware  !  beware  of  the  fatal  con 
sequences!'  But  still  bravely  and  beautifully  waves  the  banner  of 


64  MEMOIR. 

love  from  Zion's  tower,  and  on  it  is  blazoned  this  glorious  motto  — 
'  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest !  On  earth  peace,  and  good  will  to 
men.1 

"  In  the  ties  of  this  gospel,  your  sister." 

"  Shirley  Village,  Dec.  25,  1840. 

"  Br.  Bacon  :  — Perhaps  you,  and  the  readers  of  the  Repository, 
will  not  object  to  a  Christmas  letter,  even  if  it  be  not  received  before 
the  middle  of  February,  since  it  is  not  designed  to  be  an  occasional 
letter,  appropriate  to  the  day,  but  simply  a  collection  of  reminiscences 
of  by-gone  things. 

"  I  have  been  reflecting  somewhat  upon  the  propriety  of  occupying 
the  pages  of  the  Repository  with  personal  adventures,  for  I  very  well 
know  that  circumstances,  of  great  import  to  one's  self,  are  frequently 
of  little  interest  to  others.  I  have  decided,  however,  to  conclude  the 
account  of  my  journey,  by  describing  a  few  scenes  and  incidents 
which  I  encountered  after  leaving  New  York,  knowing  that  you,  at 
least,  and  a  few  other  personal  friends,  will  be  gratified  by  the  de 
tails. 

"  There  had  been  a  furious  storm  the  night  preceding  my  depart 
ure  from  the  city.  The  tumult  of  the  contending  elements,  tossing 
the  shutters  of  my  windows  to  and  fro,  and  the  excitement  of  mind 
naturally  attendant  upon  the  prospect  of  a  return  to  my  own  home 
after  an  absence  of  three  months,  kept  me  awake  the  greater  portion 
of  the  night.  Added  to  these,  there  was  a  large  fire  opposite  one  of 
the  windows  of  my  chamber ;  the  bells  were  ringing,  firemen  were 
shouting,  timbers  were  falling,  and  the  blaze  streamed  in  brightly 
upon  my  face,  leaving  me  no  alternative  but  to  '  cogitate'  upon  the 
probable  consequences  of  the  destruction  going  on  before  me. 

"  At  dawn  of  day  the  floods  of  rain  had  ceased  to  pour,  and  I  found 
myself  conveyed  on  board  the  Nimrod — the  latest  descendant,  I  sup 
pose,  of  the  renowned  hunter  of  old,  the  mighty  founder  of  mighty 
Babylon.  The  fog  detained  us  a  while  in  a  dubious  state  of  uncer 
tainty  ;  but  shortly  after  seven  we  were  ploughing  the  green  waters 
of  the  '  bay.'  The  drizzly,  murky  atmosphere  kept  us  shut  up  awhile 
in  the  saloon ;  but  getting  weary  of  gazing  at  others,  and  being  gazed 
at  in  turn,  I  soon  went  out  upon  deck.  I  had  read  the  morning 
'  Journal  of  Commerce'  through,  from  beginning  to  end  ;  not  only  all 
the  statistical  reports,  steam-ship  arrivals,  and  foreign  intelligence,  but 
the  marriages,  deaths,  ship-news  and  advertisements.  It  was  time 
now  to  '  admire  the  prospect;'  but  unfortunately  for  this  anticipated 
resource,  the  fog  entirely  obscured  the  shores  of  the  '  Sound,'  and 
the  eye  had  no  alternative  but  to  gaze  into  the  mystic  depths  of  the 


MEMOIR. 


66 


mist,  or  follow  the  up-heaving  and  down-falling  of  the  grum-voiced 
waves.  Most  of  us,  however,  had  shortly  something  of  greater  per 
sonal  interest  to  attend  to,  which  required  our  presence  in  the  cabin. 
Wordsworth  has  very  beautifully  described  the  effect  of  the  motion 
of  natural  objects  upon  the  spirit  and  manners  of  a  youthful  maiden  : 

'  Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see, 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm, 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 
By  silent  sympathy.' 

"  This  is  certainly  a  very  exquisite  passage,  let  the  critics  say  what 
they  will  of  the  '  Lakers  ;'  but  for  once  I  am  free  to  confess,  that '  the 
motions  of  the  storm'  produced  anything  but  a  refining  influence  upon 
either  form  or  temper  ;  and  all  the  '  beauty'  that  was  '  born  of  mur 
muring  sound,'  passed  into  our  faces  in  a  hue  of  utter  paleness.  We 
remained  below  deck  till  we  arrived  at  Bridgeport. 

"  I  was  expecting  to  meet  a  friend  here,  who  was  to  convey  me  to 
Massachusetts  ;  and  therefore  sat  very  leisurely  watching  the  crowd  in 
their  bustle  for  baggage,  and  their  removal  into  the  cars,  which  stood 
waiting  to  convey  passengers  to  New  Haven.  I  cast  about  a  few  anx 
ious  glances  for  the  familiar  face  of  my  friend,  but  perceived  none  but 
strange  and  singular  countenances.  There  is  always  a  good  deal  that 
is  droll  in  a  throng  of  human  faces.  I  heard  it  remarked  once  by  a 
sensible  gentleman,  that  though  Cruikshank's  illustrations  of  '  Boz,' 
and  Johnston's  cuts  for  the  '  Comic  Almanac,'  would  at  first  thought 
be  pronounced  extravagant  caricatures,  he  had  noticed  in  crowds  as 
much  deformity  of  feature,  distortion  of  form,  and  ludicrousness  of 
expression,  as  were  exhibited  in  these  singular  pictures.  He  may  be 
correct  in  a  degree,  but  I  think  not  wholly  so,  for  we  never  see  a 
nose  brought  quite  in  contact  with  a  chin,  nor  a  forehead  receding 
suddenly  from  the  eyes.  And  so  far  as  my  own  perception  of  the 
ludicrous  may  testify,  there  is  more  of  the  truly  comical  in  slight  con 
tortions  and  irregularities,  than  in  very  perceptible  deformities  ;  for 
where  the  sense  of  the  beautiful  is  wholly  outraged,  or  where  our 
feelings  of  compassion  are  called  into  action,  we  lose  sight  of  the 
ludicrous  in  emotions  of  disgust  or  of  pity. 

"  Two  hours  I  remained  in  the  saloon  of  the  boat,  awaiting  the 
appearance  of  my  friend.  The  crowd  had  long  since  dispersed.  The 
crew  of  the  boat  were  occupied  in  washing  the  deck,  and  the  steward 
ess  stood  near  me  scrubbing  the  windows.  The  rain  came  down  in 
torrents,  notwithstanding  that  the  sky  was  clear  in  the  west  and 
south,  and  the  sun  was  shining  brightly.  '  Is  there  a  tavern  near?' 
I  inquired  of  my  sociable  companion,  who  kindly  sympathized  with 
6* 


66  MEMOIR. 

me  in  my  disappointment ;  for  I  began  to  be  solicitous  for  a  home  as 
night  drew  near.  '  O,  yes,  two  or  three,'  was  the  reply ;  '  there  is 
one  right  across  the  street ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H.  keeps  that.  They  're 
very  nice  folks.'  I  felt  that  her  recommendation  was  a  good  one,  for 
if  a  poor  black  woman  had  reason  to  call  them  '  nice  folks,'  they 
must  be  kind  of  heart. 

"..As  I  was  about  bidding  adieu  to  '  Nimrod,'  I  met  the  captain, 
who  courteously  offered  me  an  umbrella  and  a  guide,  and  in  due  form 
I  was  ushered  into  the  public  parlor  of  the  W****  Hotel.  I  had 
now  found  a  home  for  the  remainder  of  the  day  and  night,  and  had  a 
disposition  to  obey  the  scriptural  injunction, '  Take  no  thought  for  the 
morrow.'  Mine  hostess  soon  entered,  and  betraying  a  very  pardona 
ble  Yankee  curiosity  to  know  my  origin  and  destination,  I  generously 
made  known  so  much  of  it  as  would  enable  her  to  give  me  some  in 
formation  of  my  best  route  to  Massachusetts.  Nothing  satisfactory 
being  offered,  I  spent  the  evening  reading  stories  in  the  '  Lady's 
Book,'  and  chatting  a  little  with  the  kind-hearted  landlady. 

"  Bridgeport  is  a  very  fine  little  village,  as  I  discovered  the  next 
morning,  on  my  way  back  to  the  boat ;  and  I  did  not  regret  the 
opportunity  which  was  afforded  me  of  seeing  it.  I  had  formed  a  very 
sudden  resolution  of  returning  to  New  York,  and  taking  another  boat 
to  Norwich  the  same  day. 

"  It  was  my  only  possible  means  of  reaching  home  by  Thanksgiv 
ing,  and  I  had  a  childish  desire  of  being  present  at  this  domestic  fes 
tival.  It  was  a  rich  and  beautiful  day.  The  ocean  slept  like  a 
weary  child,  and  the  shores  of  the  Sound,  in  spite  of  the  desolations 
of  the  frost-spirit  in  the  interior,  were  still  green  and  sunny.  We 
had  a  gay  company  of  ladies,  dressed  in  the  rich  velvet  hats  and 
shawls  of  the  season,  with  graceful  plumes  and  comfortable  little 
rnuffs,  and  it  seemed  to  me  no  idle  admiration  to  scan  these  curious 
manufactures  of  the  artisans  of  fashion. 

"  The  captain  and  waiters  of  the  boat,  recognizing  me  as  having 
been  on  board  the  preceding  day,  were  uncommonly  courteous  and 
attentive,  and  proffered  me  every  necessary  assistance  in  getting  to 
the  other  boat.  I  should  feel  myself  unjust  to  neglect  giving  my  tes 
timony  in  favor  of  the  African  character,  as  it  exists  in  the  waiters 
both  in  the  hotels  and  steamboats  where  I  have  had  an  opportunity 
for  observation.  There  is  a  propriety,  gentleness,  and  sincere  kind 
ness  of  heart  about  them,  which  may  be  said  to  form  a  distinguishing 
trait  of  their  character,  and  I  know  not  that  I  have  been  more  keenly 
touched  by  any  kindness  I  have  ever  experienced,  than  by  many  little 
unsolicited  offices  of  courtesy  from  the  children  of  the  sunny  clime  of 
Africa. 


MEM01H.  67 

"  Having  made  a  transfer  of  myself  and  chattels  to  the  '  Charter 
Oak,'  I  felt  very  secure  and  happy,  and  began  to  think  a  steamboat  a 
very  decent  home  under  favorable  circumstances.  I  had  two  hours  to 
myself  before  the  time  appointed  for  leaving  the  wharf ;  but  as  I  was 
not  familiar  with  the  streets  of  the  great  emporium,  I  chose  to  remain  in 
the  boat.  Taking  up  a  Bible  which  lay  upon  the  table,  I  found  written 
upon  a  blank  leaf  several  denunciatory  quotations  from  Watts,  relating 
to  'the  day  of  days,  the  awful  day,'  and  that  beautiful  creation  of  the 
imagination  called  '  hell,'  and  warning  sinners  to  flee  from  the  wrath 
to  come.  I  passed  the  listless  moments  in  scribbling  a  few  verses  on 
an  opposite  page,  under  the  motto,  '  As  in  Adam  all  die,  even  so  in 
Christ  shall  all  be  made  alive.' 

"  It  was  very  amusing,  after  the  passengers  began  to  assemble,  to 
listen  to  the  rival  cries  of  the  news-boys.  Some  of  them  ran  over 
the  list  of  contents,  others  recommended  the  low  price  of  their  jour 
nals,  and  the  clamor  grew  incessantly  louder  till  the  bell  rang,  and 
warned  them  away.  Having  passed  between  the  shores  of  the 
Sound  twice  within  as  many  days,  objects  began  to  look  very  familiar 
in  my  third  passage  ;  but  I  think  I  never  witnessed  a  more  beautiful 
sunset  than  that  which  shone  over  the  waters  in  this  November  eve. 
I  stood  a  long  while  at  the  stern  of  the  boat,  watching  the  strangely 
curdled  hues  that  flickered  along  the  sides  of  the  furrows  that 
we  cast  up  as  we  went,  for  they  were  to  me  new  and  full  of 
beauty.  A -brilliant  rose-color  brindled  over  the  rich  green,  and 
serpentine  streaks  of  gold  trickled  along  the  edges  of  the  snow- 
white  foam ;  the  clouds  above  were  gorgeous  as  is  their  wont  on 
an  autumn  eve,  and  the  red  sun,  as  though  unwilling  to  withdraw 
the  glories  of  his  presence,  lingered  along  the  western  sky,  and  cast 
his  rosy  smile  upon  the  white  dwellings  which  rose  up  behind  the 
evergreens  of  the  island.  Sloops  and  other  small  craft  were  glid 
ing  gently  up  the  harbor,  the  wild  geese  sported  nearer  the  shores, 
and  everything  in  heaven  and  on  earth,  and  upon  the  sea,  assumed 
hues  and  forms,  and  attitudes  of  exquisite  loveliness  and  grandeur. 

"  At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  after  a  rather  hazardous  pas 
sage  up  the  Thames,  the  boat  stops  at  Norwich,  and  passengers 
crowd  into  the  cars  for  Worcester  and  Boston.  We  had  gone  twenty 
miles  on  the  railroad,  when  suddenly  we  came  to  a  pause,  and  an 
officer  of  the  cars  entered  with  the  pleasing  intelligence  that  one  of 
the  baggage  crates  had  been  lost  off  the  track,  and  it  was  necessary 
to  send  the  engine  back  for  it.  Two  hours  we  sat  not  very  patiently 
awaiting  its  return  ;  but  once  more  on  our  way,  nothing  happened  to 
disturb  our  serenity  till  we  were  safely  deposited  in  Worcester. 
Twenty-four  miles  in  the  stage,  over  a  muddy  road,  seemed  the  most 


68  MEMOIR. 

tedious  part  of  my  homeward  journey,  for  one's  impatience  increases 
always  as  the  object  of  one's  wishes  is  more  nearly  approached. 

"  The  heart  makes  some  things  beautiful  to  us — more  beautiful 
than  the  most  elaborate  workmanship  of  nature  or  of  art.  The  affec 
tions  never  yet  clung  to  one  earthly  object  without  investing  it  with  a 
touching  loveliness ;  and,  indeed,  nothing  ever  yet  was  beautiful  which 
the  spirit  could  not  love.  I  saw  in  the  distance  the  outline  of  a  fa 
miliar  hill.  What  grace  was  there  in  its  gentle  undulations,  what 
delicacy  in  its  faded  hues !  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  dancing  stream. 
and  its  tiny  sparkles  had  as  strong  a  sway  over  the  spirit,  as  ever  yet 
had  the  splendid  magnificence  of  Niagara,  the  brightest  beam  of  the 
gentle  Susquehannah,  or  the  lordly  tide  of  the  romantic  Hudson. 
And  I  knew  then  that  though  there  may  be  streams  of  radiant  beauty 
wandering  abroad  o'er  all  the  land,  their  deep,  mysterious  spring  is  in 
the  human  soul.  The  bleak  and  barren  highlands  were  beautiful  to 
Scott ;  '  If  I  could  not  look  upon  the  heather  once  a  year,'  said  he,  '  / 
believe  I  should  die ! '  " 

Of  the  three  following  years  I  have  few  events  to  relate. 
Her  life  flowed  on  in  the  ordinary  channel,  and  to  outward 
appearance  nothing  disturbed  its  peace.  But,  doubtless,  the 
work  of  spiritual  growth  was  then  proceeding ;  for  our  times 
of  outward  rest  are  often  most  fruitful  in  mental  and  religious 
experiences.  The  editing  of  the  "Rose"  was  continued,  and 
she  also  wrote  the  usual  quantity  for  other  publications,  be 
sides  a  miniature  volume,  "  The  Flower- Vase,"  consisting 
of  original  and  selected  verses,  illustrative  of  the  language  of 
flowers.  She  also  edited  the  Poems  of  Mrs.  Scott,  and  pre 
fixed  it  with  a  memoir.  From  her  correspondence  at  this  time 
I  select  the  following. 

Of  an  article  written  by  a  friend  while  in  great  affliction, 
she  says  :  — 

"  There  is  a  beautiful  spirit  in  that  article,  which  I  have  often  dwelt 
upon  since  reading  it ;  it  is  the  true  spirit  of  our  own  rich  and  sunny 
faith,  which  never  seems  to  us  so  really  beautiful  as  when  smiling  in 
the  heart  of  the  mourner,  and  sitting  like  an  angel  at  the  entrance  of 
the  tomb." 

Of  her  occupations  at  this  time,  she  says  :  — 

"  I  am  leading  a  very  quiet  life,  this  winter,  and  am  quite  resuming 
my  old  habits  of  seclusion  and  industry.  I  have  recently  added  to 


MEMOIR.  69 

my  books  the  '  Family  Library,'  which  now  embraces  over  a  hundred 
volumes.  Most  of  them  are  new  to  me,  and  treat  upon  subjects  of 
which  I  am  peculiarly  fond  —  particularly  the  natural  sciences  — 
though  I  am  not  at  all  scientific.  Of  course  I  have  enough  reading 
to  do.  And  then  I  am  trying  to  study  French  a  little — just  sufficient 
to  translate  passably  well.  I  have  read  a  few  '  livres  '  of  Fenelon's 
Telemaque,  and  a  little  in  Dupaty's  '  Lettres  sur  Italia.'  But  I  am 
a  most  uncouth  and  disgraceful  translator,  I  assure  you,  at  present. 
Added  to  these  things,  I  am  trying  to  write  something  for  the  next 
'Rose.'  I  am  getting  quite  disconsolate  over  my  attempts.  I  believe 
I  never  did  write  so  poorly  as  I  am  writing  this  winter.  T  have  given 
up  reading  poetry,  I  get  so  vexed  with  my  own  rhymes  at  the  '  odious 
comparison.'  " 

Of  Wordsworth  she  thus  writes  :  — 

"  For  your  very  excellent  letter,  received  through  Br. ,  I  can 

hardly  thank  you  enough.  What  a  comfort  it  is  to  have  such  friends, 
who  will  write  so  kindly  and  affectionately,  and  always  so  encourag 
ingly.  Every  day  I  think  how  blest  I  am  in  this  respect,  and  I  really 
cannot  imagine  how  I  could  get  through  the  world  at  all  without  them. 
I  suppose,  however,  I  should  make  friends  of  the  hills,  as  Wordsworth 
somewhere  recommends,  and  confidants  of  the  flowers  and  rocks ; 
for  to  live  without  some  kind  of  sympathy,  either  real  or  imaginary, 
would  be  impossible.  Wordsworth  —  by  the  way,  I  was  pleased  with 
what  you  said  of  him,  and  have  taken  to  the  study  of  his  poetry  with  a 
new  delight,  since  I  know  that  you  are  also  learning  to  love  it,  (an  illus 
tration  of  the  power  of  sympathy,  and  of  the  thirst  for  it  mentioned 
above.)  I  am  sure  Wordsworth  will  do  you  good — judging  from 
my  own  experience  —  for  there  is  something  in  his  pure,  gentle  phi 
losophy,  in  his  calm  thought  and  sunny  faith,  which  acts  as  a  sedative 
to  every  perturbed  feeling  of  the  heart.  Every  expression  is  so  pure, 
simple,  and  unaffected,  every  thought  so  passionless  and  intellectual, 
it  is  a  luxury  to  the  mind  to  follow  his  meditations.  His  affections 
seem  to  be  always  of  the  gentlest  and  most  refined  character.  I  do 
not  know  that  there  is  a  trace  of  passion  in  anything  he  has  ever 
written  ;  but  yet  how  much  of  benevolence  and  tenderness  !  How  he 
delights  to  take  up  the  characters  of  the  lowly  and  simple,  and  invest 
them  with  poetic  interest.  He  enters  the  by-lanes  of  life,  and  res 
cues  from  oblivion  the  humbler  specimens  of  humanity — the  Peter 
Bells,  the  pedlers,  idiots,  and  peasant-girls,  that  interest  his  be 
nevolent  mind.  He  unveils  their  hearts,  and  exhibits  the  operations 
of  outward  nature  upon  their  moral  feelings.  He  enters  into  their 
griefs,  and  interests  himself  tenderly  in  all  the  circumstances  of  their 


70  MEMOIR. 

fortunes.  It  is  for  this  expansive  benevolence  and  intellectual  purity 
that  I  so  much  love  him ;  and  there  is  also  much  beauty  of  language 
to  make  his  poetry  a  pleasing  mental  exercise.  I  think  he  has  great 
felicity  of  expression  at  times,  an  arrangement  of  words  almost  un 
equalled  in  their  harmony  and  significance."  *  *  *  * 

"  Do  you  read  Wordsworth?  I  must  talk  about  books,  for  it  is  all 
I  have  to  think  of  now-a-days,  and  when  I  talk  about  any  one,  I  usu 
ally  select  him.  I  know  of  no  one  whom  I  think  ought  to  be  so  uni 
versally  admired,  about  whom  there  is  such  a  contrariety  of  opinions. 
Some  ridicule  him ;  and  those  I  always  set  down  as  having  no  '  fel 
low-feeling,'  and  of  course  incompetent  to  perceive  his  excellences. 
Others,  without  reason,  I  think,  call  him  too  metaphysical  and  medi 
tative.  Others,  again,  love,  honor  and  admire  him  —  and  of  this  latter 
class  am  I.  His  '  Excursion,'  long  as  it  is,  is  full  of  beautiful,  gentle, 
refining  morality.  It  is  ethics  inverse  —  and  most  musical  verse  it 
is,  too,  —  sweet,  lulling,  and  full  of  tenderness.  But  I  have  no  room 
to  eulogize,  —  and  eulogize  I  shall,  if  I  keep  on." 

Her  confidence  in  her  own  power  does  not  increase.  She 
writes  thus  to  a  friend  :  — 

"  I  think  I  never  before  succeeded  so  little  to  my  own  satisfaction, 
as  now.  There  is  such  an  unattainable  excellence  constantly  before 
me  in  the  writings  of  the  great  and  gifted,  that  my  pen  falters  in 
every  line  it  would  trace.  My  versification  is  all  tame,  spiritless ; 
my  prose  seems  either  too  simple,  or  too  artificial ;  in  short,  I  am 
dissatisfied  with  all  my  efforts ;  and  for  that  reason  particularly  desire 
assistance." 

To  Mrs.  Scott,  now  very  ill,  she  writes  :  — 

"  You  must  not  think  I  was  not  alarmed  and  very  sorry  to  hear  of 
your  illness,  because  I  have  allowed  more  than  a  week  to  pass  with 
out  answering  your  letter  ;  indeed,  I  was  greatly  grieved  at  the  tidings, 
but  glad  that  you  were  able  to  give  them  to  me  yourself.  I  cannot 
but  hope  you  are  much  better,  ere  this,  and  able  in  part,  at  least,  to 
resume  the  duties  and  the  enjoyments  of  health.  Poor  Julia !  you 
have  a  hard  lot  of  it,  to  endure  so  much  in  the  way  of  physical  suffer 
ing,  and  so  much,  too,  of  mental  trial.  Yet  how  much  blest  above 
many  are  you,  in  the  abundant  consolations  of  our  pure  religion.  Oh, 
my  friend,  I  may  say  to  you  and  with  you,  what  in  this  wide  and 
erring  world  would  be  pleasant,  or  even  supportable,  without  the 
comforts  and  energies  of  our  holy  and  immaculate  faith  ?  Every  day 
does  it  not  grow  brighter,  and  stronger,  and  more  consoling  ?  Who 


MEMOIR.  71 

would  ever  love  without  it,  —  and  who  could  live  and  not  love  ?  I 
cannot  understand  how  those  can  endure  the  burden  of  life,  who  place 
their  dearest  hopes,  their  boundless  affections  where  they  dare  not  feel 
they  may  have  an  eternal  rest." 

The  approach  of  spring  draws  from  her  the  following  :  — 

"  Spring  has  come  again  at  last,  and  I  am  feeling  its  influence  in 
every  thought.  I  know  not  how  the  first  vernal  days  may  affect  you 
in  the  city,  but  for  me  the  year  has  nothing  more  delightful  than  its 
first  softening  airs  and  singing  birds.  Spring  brings  me  headaches,  and 
lassitude  of  limb,  but  with  these  a  spiritual  delight,  that  is  a  threefold 
compensation.  A  flock  of  little  birds  came  about  the  house  on  Valen 
tine's  day  —  their  wedding-day,  you  know,  —  and  have  remained  ever 
since,  singing  the  sweetest  little  melodies  you  ever  heard." 

She  writes  thus  to  a  friend  who  is  oppressed  by  discourage 
ments  :  — 

"  No  one  knows  better  how  to  feel  for  you  in  seasons  of  melancholy 
than  I,  being  constitutionally  subject  to  frequent  and  unconquerable 
depression  of  spirits,  like  that  of  which  you  speak.  I  am  very  sorry  for 
you,  knowing  too  well,  that  of  all  sufferings  nothing  is  more  difficult 
to  be  endured,  —  nothing  more  life-wearying  in  its  effects.  1  know 
your  confinement  and  cares  must  be  very  great,  a  species  of  martyr 
dom  at  which  I  fancy  I  should  prove  no  heroine,  having,  from  my 
youth  up,  led  the  wild  bird-life  of  which  you  give  a  reminiscence  in 
your  little  poem.  But  though  this  may  be  the  gayer,  I  do  not  con 
sider  it  the  nobler,  life.  Toil,  self-sacrifice,  and  devotion  to  those  we 
love,  as  well  as  to  the  general  good,  are  our  higher  destiny ;  and  though 
the  air  may  be  colder  there,  it  is  but  to  make  the  spirit  hardier,  that 
it  may  take  bolder  and  stronger  flights  toward  the  Eternal." 

And  thus,  to  a  young  friend  in  the  ministry  :  — 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  so  pleasant  a  location.  I  trust 
it  may  be  a  long  and  happy  one,  if  it  so  suit  the  pleasure  of  Heaven. 
That  you  will  do  good,  I  doubt  not ;  and  I  presume  the  responsibili 
ties  of  a  pastor's  charge  will  be  favorable  to  many  yet  unawakened 
energies  of  your  mind.  The  consciousness  of  important  duties,  and 
their  claims  upon  the  intellect  and  the  heart,  are  of  most  essential 
service  in  the  formation  of  a  great  and  good  character.  Particularly 
are  they  good,  though  difficult,  for  the  young  and  inexperienced  :  and 
though  we  sometimes  may  feel  bowed  down  with  the  burden  of  cares, 
there  will  be  many  an  after  hour  in  which  we  shall  bless  God  that 
we  have  been  tried." 


72  MEMOIR. 

In  a  letter  written  December  22d,  she  gives  a  domestic 
picture :  — 

"  I  really  wish  you  could  make  me  a  visit  this  winter,  I  am  so 
comfortable ;  and  that  you  may  give  your  '  pictures'  all  possible 
vraisemblance,  I  will  furnish  you  with  a  few  outlines.  Our  sitting- 
room  is  what  was  last  summer  our  dining-room,  and  has  undergone 
no  other  alteration  than  the  addition  of  a  striped  carpet,  (to  gratify  my 
love  of  colors,)  and  the  loss  of  one  of  the  book-cases,  which  belonged 
to  my  new-married  brother.  Here  my  sisters  and  I,  with  a  good  fire 
in  our  little  stove,  enjoy  almost  uninterrupted  tranquillity.  Mother 
occupies  her  little  sitting-room  adjoining,  for  father  likes  the  light  of 
an  open  fire,  and  the  children  a  place  where  they  can  make  a  noise. 
You  must  not  paint  me  in  the  picture  '  reading  aloud,'  for  I  fancy  my 
Latin  declensions  and  conjugations  would  have  little  interest  for  my 
companions  ;  but  you  may  paint  me  knitting  my  brow  over  the  difficult 
text,  or  puzzling  my  brain  to  spin  out  something  upon  paper.  Before 
dinner,  I  read  history ;  after  dinner,  Latin  ;  and  the  evening  I  devote 
to  writing.  This  arrangement  I  have  followed  for  several  weeks, 
and  find  it  very  convenient.  If  I  gain  any  time  by  unusual  industry, 
or  facility  of  thought,  I  improve  it  in  any  miscellaneous  reading  that 
I  like.  All  this  looks  very  systematic,  but  I  assure  you  the  rules  are 
not  very  rigidly  enforced,  my  mistress  being  one  of  the  most  indulgent 
creatures  you  ever  met.  You  know  Fowler  marked  rriy  chart,  self- 
esteem  5  —  6  ?  The  fact  will  account  for  this  long  string  of  egotism  ; 
but  I  have  not  written  it  so  much  in  self-praise,  as  to  convince  you 
that  my  life,  though  secluded  and  quiet,  is  not  idle.  You,  who  are 
always  reading,  and  thinking,  and  writing  good  and  beautiful  things, 
are  so  silent  about  them  in  your  letters,  that  I  feel  quite  ashamed  of 
the  display  I  make  to  you,  as  though  I  were  really  one  of  the  won 
ders  of  the  age.  This  living  so  much  by  one's  self  does,  I  verily 
believe,  induce  selfishness,  if  not  self-conceit ;  and  I  know  not  to  what 
extent  it  might  increase,  did  not  occasional  contact  with  superior 
minds  distinctly  remind  me  of  my  insignificance." 

January  8,  1842,  she  thus  writes  :  — 

"  Do  you  hear  ever  from  our  friend ?     I  fear  she  thinks  I 

have  grown  indifferent  to  her,  and  I  hardly  blame  her  if  she  does,  for, 

shall  I  confess  it,  I  have  not  sent  her  a  single  line  since  I  left , 

last  July.  It  is  too  bad,  but  I  have  neglected  nearly  all  my  friends 
in  the  same  manner.  I  have  no  excuse  for  it,  except  engrossing  oc 
cupations  and  a  growing  disinclination  to  my  pen.  To  tell  the  truth, 
it  has  become  a  great  task  for  me  to  write  at  all,  and  nothing  that  I 


MEMOIE.  73 

attempt  succeeds  to  my  satisfaction.  I  quite  dread  to  think  of  the 
'  Rose,'  and  my  contributions  to  the  Repository  are  almost  a  subject 
of  terror  to  me.  I  wonder  if  this  be  indolence,  or  whether  it  may  arise 
from  some  other  cause  not  quite  so  derogatory  to  my  character  for 
industry  ?  I  love  study  as  well  as  ever ;  but  I  dread  the  eye  of  the 
world  upon  my  soul,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  my  thoughts  have  lost 
their  freshness,  and  that,  instead  of  giving  pleasure  to  my  friends,  I 
shall  only  weary  them  with  hackneyed  thoughts  and  feeble  expres 
sions.  Is  this  all  fancy  ?  Your  generous  partiality  will  doubtless  tell 
me  so,  but  perhaps  others,  who  love  me  less,  will  be  more  inclined  to 
agree  with  me,  in  thinking  that  my  productions  are,  really,  very 
unprofitable.  *  *  *  *  You  say  I  write  much  of  disappointed 

love.     I  do  so,  dear ,  not  from  any  personal  interest  in  the 

theme,  but  because,  so  far  as  my  acquaintance  with  the  human  heart 
extends,  there  is  much  secret  suffering  from  this  cause  ;  and  I  trust 
I  never  speak  in  a  manner  to  minister  to  morbid  regret,  but  rather  to 
point  out  its  uses,  its  sanctifying  influence  upon  the  heart,  and  to 
recommend,  as  far  as  may  be,  its  best  and  most  successful  remedies. 
Perhaps  I  make  it  too  frequent  a  theme  ;  but  you  know  it  is  my  nature 
to  be  interested  in  love,  and  out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  the  pen 
writeth.  *  *  *  *  I  am  very  glad  that  your  little  book  has  been 
so  successful.  I  know  it  must  be  a  gratification  to  yourself,  and  cer 
tainly  it  is  to  all  of  us  who  love  you.  Yet  I  can  fully  believe  what 
you  say,  that  your  happiness  depends  more  on  being  a  faithful  wife 
and  mother  than  a  writer  of  books.  I  know  that  for  myself  I  should 
greatly  prefer  to  excel  in  those  relations,  'had  Heaven  so  disposed  my 
fate,  than  to  be  the  author  of  the  most  admired  book  ever  written  ; 
still,  my  dear  friend,  I  and  many  with  me  would  exceedingly  regret 
that  you  should  entirely  relinquish  your  pen  —  for  it  is  the  chronicler 
of  sweet  tales,  and  a  gentle  minister  of  purity  and  love." 

Of  her  winter  employments  she  writes  :  — 

.  "  Now  that  I  have  told  you  what  I  have  not  done,  I  will  show  the 
brighter  side  of  the  picture.  I  have  written  poetry  for  the  '  Rose,' 
and  have  prepared  articles  for  the  Repository,  to  last  till  May.  Some 
twenty  or  thirty  letters,  also,  I  have  written,  and  one  or  two  little 
pieces  that  I  intend  sending  to  the  '  Star.'  And  this  is  all.  But 
I  have  done  better  with  reading.  The  girls  made  me  translate 
'  Corinne'  to  them  aloud,  which  occupied  the  better  part  of  two  or 
three  weeks,  in  my  blundering  manner.  But  it  is  a  fascinating  book 
—  a  story  of  passionate,  suffering,  wronged  affection,  with  a  tragical 
denouement.  I  have  despatched  something  like  twenty  volumes  of 
history  and  biography  —  and  am  now  reading  Gibbon's  Rome  aloud 
7 


74  MEMOIR. 

as  often  as  I  find  opportunity.  In  poetry  I  have  run  from  Scott  to 
Byron,  from  Shakspeare  to  Mrs.  Hemans,  and,  indeed,  enjoyed  the 
society  of  almost  all  the  good  masters  of  the  English  lyre,  as  often  as 
leisure  has  allowed.  As  to  novels,  I  have  not  looked  in  one  except 
'  Corinne,'  and  thought,  when  I  finished  that,  it  should  be  along  while 
ere  I  opened  another." 

In  the  same  letter,  in  excusing  the  melancholy  tone  of  a 
portion  of  it,  she  says  :  — 

"  It  was  a  cold  and  gloomy  day  yesterday ;  the  weather  had  its 
influence  upon  my  feelings,  and  I  find,  upon  looking  over  my  letter, 
that  I  have  allowed  some  foolish  things  to  find  admittance.  Every 
thing  depends  upon  the  weather.  This  morning  I  am  as  bright  as  a 
lark,  and  as  happy  as  a  kitten,  and  can  hardly  realize  how  it  is  pos 
sible  I  ever  should  be  sad.  So  you  must  never  be  disturbed  by  any 
little  shadows  of  melancholy  that  steal  over  my  feelings  when  writ 
ing  to  you  —  for  it  takes  but  one  hour  of  cheerful  sunshine  to  chase 
them  all  away.  So  variable  is  my  temperament  and  mental  constitu 
tion,  I  could  not  be  placed  in  circumstances  so  wretched  that  I  should 
not  have  many  bright  and  joyous  thoughts  ;  neither  could  I  be  in  any 
thing  so  blessed  that  I  should  not  have  occasional  days  of  gloom. 
Perhaps  you,  yourself,  have  some  knowledge  of  these  'caprices'  of 
feeling;  if  so,  you  will  be  able  to  understand  me." 

In  April  she  writes  :  — 

"  I  have  little  to  write  that  will  interest  you  ;  I  go  out  occasionally 
to  see  and  hear  the  dear  brook?  which  is  more  musical  and  foamy 
than  ever  at  this  season.  I  find  a  few  flowers,  also,  almost  every  walk 
I  take  ;  but  it  is  yet  too  early  to  meet  them  in  great  abundance.  I 
write  a  little  occasionally  —  scrub  house  also,  and  make  over  old 
dresses  to  look  as  well  as  new.  Thus  passes  away  my  life,  perhaps 
as  usefully  as  if  it  were  more  bustling  and  showy." 

In  one  of  her  earliest  letters  to  her  new  friend,  "  Charlotte," 
of  whom  I  shall  say  more  hereafter,  she  thus  writes  :  — 

"  Your  second  letter  was  received  most  welcomely,  and  before  I  had 
broken  the  seal,  I  said  to  myself,  '  Well,  Lottie  is  a  good  girl,  to  answer 
my  letter  so  promptly  ;'  but  after  I  had  opened  and  perused  it,  and 
found  that  it  was  written  before  the  receipt  of  mine,  I  thanked  you 
still  more  ;  for  it  proved  to  me,  what  I  fully  believed  before,  that  my 
dear  friend  was  not  one  of  those  calculating  compensation  bodies,  who 
must  always  have  a  '  quid  pro  quo'  — and  '  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  and 
an  eye  for  an  eye.'  It  was  a  proof,  too,  that  you  loved  me,  and 


MEMOIR.  75 

thought  of  me  ;  and  that  was  very  much  to  one  who  craves  affec 
tion  so  exorbitantly  as  does  your  simple  friend,  Sarah.  Yes, 
dear  Lottie,  I  do  believe  in  '  spiritual  magnetism.'  Firmly  as  I 
believe  the  mysteries  of  the  mesmeric  science,  I  do  not  yield  it  half 
the  faith,  nor  esteem  it  half  so  wonderful,  indeed,  as  that  power  with 
in  us  which  can  work  such  mighty  spells  on  the  spirits  and  hearts  of 
those  that  love  us.  And  why  should  not  a  '  pair  of  black  eyes'  be 
haunting  you,  when  those  very  eyes,  some  forty  miles  distant,  were 
gazing  in  fancy  upon  your  dear  form,  and  calling  up  in  various  pic 
tures,  the  varied  expressions  they  had  in  former  hours  seen  flitting 
across  your  face?  Had  it  been  otherwise,  Lottie,  I  would  have 
abjured  my  faith.  Your  story  was,  indeed,  ghostly  enough.  I  do 
not  '  commit  myself,'  however,  upon  a  subject  in  which  I  have  had  no 
personal  experience.  Have  you  ever  read  Scott's  '  Demonology,'  or 
that  other  book  in  the  Family  Library,  which  treats  of  all  kinds  of  magic 
and  spectral  apparitions  ?  There  are  many  very  marvellous  stories 
recorded  in  them,  and  the  attempt  made  to  explain  them  upon  philo 
sophical  principles — such  as  optic  derangement,  &c. ;  but  these  expla 
nations  never  fully  satisfied  me,  and  I  am  still  as  much  as  ever  in 
the  dark.  I  have  tried  a  great  many  times  to  '  see  a  ghost'  —  to 
invoke  spirits  to  appear ;  —  but  for  some  inexplicable  reason  they 
refuse  to  do  my  bidding,  till  I  am  at  last  in  such  a  '  miff'  with  all  the 
host  of  goblins,  that  if  they  had  a  wish  to  show  themselves  they 
would  be  withheld  by  a  dread  of  my  anger.  Spirits  are  really  very 
mysterious  things ;  and  I  have  learned  to  look  upon  them  as  much 
greater  mysteries  since  I  became  a  believer  in  Animal  Magnetism. 
That  one  person's  mind  should  gain  such  a  spell  over  another's,  as  to 
draw  it  away  from  its  body,  and  lead  it  to  remote  places  which  it  had 
never  visited,  and  bid  it  discourse  of  things  and  persons  there  located, 
of  which  neither  mind  had  any  previous  knowledge,  if  it  be  true,  is 
surely  the  most  wonderful  fact  ever  brought  into  the  sphere  of  human 
comprehension.  I  leave  others  to  explain  its  philosophy,  while  I  sit 
still  and  marvel.  *  *  * 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  envy  you,  —  and  that  is,  your  privilege  of 
attending  lectures.  I  think  I  would  even  consent  to  give  up  the  beau 
ties  and  quietude  of  the  country,  for  the  literary  advantages  of  Boston. 
The  lectures  of  Mr.  Dana  must  have  been  exceedingly  interesting. 
There  are  a  thousand  beauties  in  Shakspeare,  and  every  other  great 
poet,  which  one  would  never  discover  without  the  aid  of  some  finely 
cultivated  poetic  mind  —  of  some  miner  who  is  skilled  in  digging  up 
intellectual  gems,  and  giving  them  the  polish  of  an  artist. 

"  I  wish  we  could  be  together  to  read  Spenser  and  Shakspeare  and 


76  MEMOIR. 

Milton.  It  would  add  much  to  the  interest  which  they  inspire,  and 
I  fancy  we  could  mutually  aid  each  other  in  eliciting  their  numerous 
beauties.  I  have  read  '  Comus'  since  I  returned  from  Lowell  —  the 
second  time  within  a  year  —  and  may  I  say  that  of  all  Milton's  poems 
this  is  my  favorite?  'Paradise  Lost'  is  a  very  great  and  marvellous 
achievement  of  genius — but  it  never  wins  my  love,  though  it  com 
mands  my  admiration.  So  the  '  Midsummer  Night  Dream'  in  Shak- 
speare,  possesses  for  me  a  peculiar  charm. 

"  I  have  been  reading  Dickens'  Notes  of  Travel  in  America.  It 
has  his  usual  wealth  of  humor,  and  is,  I  believe,  in  almost  every 
respect,  just,  if  not  generous.  He  shows  in  it  his  warm,  kind,  benev 
olent  nature.  I  love  him  for  the  severity,  or  justice,  I  might  say, 
with  which  he  has  written  of  slavery  ;  of  the  Philadelphia  Solitary 
Confinement  System  ;  of  Prison  Discipline  ;  of  American  '  spitting  ;' 
of  Shakerism,  (we  have  Shakers  in  our  town,  so  I  can  vouch  for 
the  truth  of  his  representations,)  and  last,  but  not  least,  of  the  vile 
newspaper  depravity  which  now  prevails  throughout  our  political 
world.  May  his  strictures  be  duly  felt  and  regarded.  Coming  from 
an  Englishman,  and  an  author  so  extremely  popular  as  Dickens,  they 
will,  I  think,  effect  greater  good  than  anything  that  could  be  written 
by  an  American." 

To  the  same  person  she  gives  a  picture  of  her  home  :  — 

"  What  a  long  time  of  beautiful  weather  we  have  had,  pleasanter 
even  than  summer  I  think.  I  have  taken  one  very  pleasant  walk, 
and  only  one,  since  my  return.  You  don't  know  how  much  I  wished 
you  with  me  to  enjoy  the  splendid  landscape.  From  the  top  of  a  high 
hill  directly  back  of  our  dwelling  is  seen  one  of  the  prettiest  and  most 
extensive  scenes  of  woodland  and  water,  and  intermingling  hills,  that 
was  ever  my  lot  to  gaze  upon  ;  and  when  colored  with  the  splendid 
dyes  of  autumn,  nothing  can  exceed  its  gorgeous  beauty.  Next  sum 
mer,  when  you  pay  me  that  visit,  we  will  have  some  delightful  ram 
bles  '  through  bush,  through  briar'  —  will  we  not?" 

And  she  thus  expresses  her  pleasure  at  the  acquisition  of 
such  a  friend  :  — 

"  Your  very  kind  letters  have  both  been  received,  and  read  with 
more  than  usual  interest.  I  do  love  your  warm,  free  heart,  that  dis 
penses  so  liberally  of  its  sweet  treasures  to  one  who  prizes  affection 
above  all  other  earthly  gifts.  I  have  not  been  unmindful  of  you, 
although  time  has  been  hitherto  so  fully  occupied  as  to  leave  me  no 
opportunity  to  answer  your  first  good  letter.  Your  pleasant  face  is 


MEMOIR.  77 

before  me  often  in  my  busiest  moments  ;  it  mingles  with  my  sweetest 
visions ;  it  is  a  new  and  welcome  star  in  the  sky  of  my  heart,  whence 
some  have  already  gone  down,  and  others  glimmer  and  grow  pale. 
Long  beam  it  brightly  there,  to  cheer  my  hours  of  sadness,  and  guide 
me  on  to  fountains  of  happiness  and  strength." 

To  the  same  :  — 

"  Do  you  have  any  good  laughs  now-a-days  ?  I  am  afraid  my  face 
will  grow  sharp  and  elongated  if  you  do  not  come  soon  to  throw  into 
it  the  reflection  of  your  own  merry  humor.  Somehow  or  other,  there 
does  not  seem  to  be  anything  to  make  fun  of  here  ;  and  unless  I  have 
some  one  to  help  me,  I  seldom  get  into  much  of  a  frolic.  Here  I  sit  from 
morning  till  night — no,  I  don't  sit  all  the  while,  but  stay  —  doing 
nothing  in  the  world  more  comical  than  washing  dishes,  sweeping 
floors,  eating,  drinking,  and  scribbling.  Once  in  a  while,  sisters  and 
I  have  a  funny  time  —  but  we  have  to  use  the  same  thing  over  so 
many  times  we  wear  it  all  out  before  anything  new  suggests  itself. 
I  think,  if  you  were  here,  you  might  keep  us  in  new  ideas." 

In  March,  1843,  she  writes  :  — 

"  To-morrow  is  the  anniversary  of  Mrs.  Scott's  death.  A  year 
since  she  was  taking  her  farewell  of  all  she  loved  on  earth ;  where  is 
she  now  ?  Whenever  I  think  of  her,  it  seems  to  me  that  she  is  pres 
ent — that  she  knows  my  thoughts  ;  and  I  have  a  feeling  of  reverence 
and  awe,  very  like  that  I  used  to  experience  in  her  personal  society. 
The  spiritual  state  is  to  me  a  most  solemn  mystery.  I  have  no  defi 
nite  ideas  respecting  it,  but  yet  no  distrust  of  its  entire  peacefulness, 
and  superiority  to  what  we  now  experience.  I  have  a  strong  longing 
to  know  something  —  but  such  knowledge  is,  I  suppose,  very  wisely 
forbidden." 

At  the  close  of  a  descriptive  letter  to  Charlotte,  she  says  :  — 

"  So  one  picture  follows  another  in  my  soul,  like  a  moving  diora 
ma —  now  it  is  a  laughing  eye,  and  now  a  pale  and  thoughtful  brow. 
Everything  that  is  beautiful  in  expression,  no  matter  in  what  human 
face  divine  I  meet  it,  is  daguerreotyped  into  my  heart,  and  becomes  a 
material  for  thought,  fancy  and  affection." 

April  24th,  1843,  to  a  dear  friend  :  — 

"  Dear ,  you  don't  know  a  beautiful  rainbow  is  this  mo 
ment  dazzling  my  eyes,  as  I  lift  them  in  the  direction  of  Providence  — 
for  even  from  here  I  can  look  towards  your  dear  city  —  and  when  I 

7* 


78  MEMOIR. 

turn  to  my  paper,  my  eyes  carry  there  the  bright  and  beautiful  reflec 
tion,  so  that  my  letter  seems  covered  with  rainbows.  Is  there  mean 
ing  in  this  1  Oh,  let  there  always  be  rainbows  between  you  and  me, 
dear  friend !" 

In  June  she  writes  :  — 

"  I  am  busy —busy — biisy — with  the  uncompleted '  Rose. '  When  I 
look  into  the  garden,  I  envy  the  roses  there  for  the  ease  with  which 
they  grow.  But  I  love  the  work.  If  I  could  dismiss  a  few  of  the 
perplexities,  I  know  nothing  more  gratifying  than  the  preparation  of 
my  little  annual  pic-nic.  But  when  copy  fails,  and  I  have  nowhere 
to  turn  for  a  supply  but  1o  my  own  brain,  I  confess  my  hand  and 
heart  both  falter.  But  it  is  so  much  pleasanter  and  easier  to  think 
and  write  in  the  cool,  quiet  country,  than  in  your  good,  generous,  but 
noisy,  dirty  city,  that  I  have  no  words  to  express  the  pleasure  I  feel 
in  being  able  to  remain  at  home  during  this  delightful  season." 

Also,  the  same  year,  the  following :  — 

"  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  I  do  not  write  letters  with  the  ease  that 
I  once  did.  Is  my  mind  less  fertile,  or  my  heart1?  I  have  not  out 
lived  all  sentiment,  I  trust,  but  I  am  in  a  transition-state,  that  most 
uninteresting  period  of  human  life,  when  my  mind  seems  striving  to 
settle  itself  into  some  regular  habits  of  thought,  and  my  heart  is,  I 
know  not  where,  —  afloat  on  the  tide  of  life,  knowing  not  where  to 
make  its  haven,  —  not  yet  satisfied  with  its  search  among  things  of 
earth,  yet  feeling  more  and  more  convinced  that  the  sole  heaven  is 
above,  and  that  thither  its  course  should  tend.  I  do  not  grow  better 
as  I  increase  in  years.  I  rather  feel  that  I  am  worse ;  that  I  am 
more  giddy  and  thoughtless ;  thai  I  am  constantly  sliding  back  from 
the  goal  of  moral  excellence  whither  my  better  judgment  would  lead 
me.  But  into  this  strain  I  will  not  lead  you  ;  for  if  I  am  not  good 
and  wise,  it  is  my  own  fault,  and  I  have  no  claims  on  the  sympathy 
of  those  who  are  so.  I  am  very  happy,  but  there  is  a  question  in  my 
mind  whether  I  deserve  to  be  so.  I  do  little  to  merit  so  much  sunshine 
from  heaven.  . 

"  I  wish  you  were  here  to  ramble  with  me  to-night.  We  have 
had  some  fine  showers,  and  the  trees  are  so  green  and  beautiful,  I 
am  longing  to  be  out  in  the  shadow  of  them.  I  never  realized  the 
charms  of  the  country  so  fully  as  now,  after  my  long  visit  to  the  hot 
and  dusty  city.  I  hope  I  may  always  have  a  home  amid  the  beauti 
ful  things  of  nature.  Art,  literature,  human  society,  —  these  all 
united,  would  not  supply  to  me  the  absence  of  green  fields  and  run- 


MEMOffi.  79 

ning  brooks ;  much  less  would  they  reconcile  me  to  the  loss  of  country 
quiet,  which  is,  I  believe,  a  part  of  my  very  soul.  I  trust  heaven  is 
not  the  eternal  city,  but  the  eternal  country  ;  that  would  convey  to  my 
mind  far  sweeter  images  of  beauty  and  peace,  than  any  description  I 
have  ever  read. 

"  After  all,  to  how  little  of  the  really  beautiful  within  us  can  we 
give  clear  utterance  !  How  much  there  is  in  our  souls,  of  God  and 
heaven  —  how  much  of  love  and  grief,  for  which  we  can  find  no  words  ? 
And  are  not  these  thoughts  and  feelings  worth  more  to  us  than  all 
that  we  ever  uttered  ?  These,  at  least,  can  never  be  poured  out  and 
wasted  —  never  can  be  wounded  by  rudeness,  nor  crushed  by  scorn. 
They  are  like  beautiful  night-dreams  that  fill  us  with  joy  and  delight, 
but  which  can  never  be  shared  with  or  imparted  to  another.  You 
ask  me  what  I  am  doing,  and  thinking.  Really,  it  would  be  a 
strange  catalogue  if  I  were  to  tell  you  all.  I  have  as  much  washing 
and  churning  as  Debby*  had  to  do,  and,  what  is  provoking,  I  can 
never  manage  to  look  beautiful  or  graceful  about  -it.  Then  I  read 
some  novels  too,  Miss  Bremer's  in  particular,  and  take  some  solitary 
strolls,  but  none  by  moonlight.  As  for  thinking,  why,  sometimes  I 
think  of  you,  but  I  would  not  have  you  imagine  I  do  such  a  foolish 
thing  very  often.  Sometimes  I  think  sad  things  that  make  me  cry, 
but  much  oftener  glad  and  gay  things  that  make  me  laugh.  I  do  not 
indulge  in  excess  of  feeling  on  any  subject  when  I  can  avoid  it ;  and , 
above  all  things,  I  struggle  to  keep  down  fallacious  hopes,  —  to  dream 
of  no  joy  that  cannot  be  mine,  to  foster  no  unquiet  wish  for  blessings 
God  withholds.  And  so  the  world  goes  on,  and  I  strive  to  think  it 
goes  smoothly  ;  but  I  cannot  but  rejoice,  all  the  while,  that  there  is  a 
happier  one  prepared  for  us  in  the  end  ;  one  where  the  soul  sins  not, 
and  the  heart  is  never  lonely.  My  literary  occupations  are  often  a 
source  of  pure  pleasure  to  me,  though  making  them  so  public  a  thing 
is  a  trial  to  my  feelings,  that  few  can  understand.  I  know  that  all 
sensitiveness  of  this  kind  should  stand  rebuked  by  the  voice  of  duty ; 
but  I  sometimes  suffer  so  much  from  a  sense  of  my  situation  in 
this  respect,  that  a  refuge  under  some  green  sod  of  the  church-yard, 
with  no  name  to  point  out  my  hiding-place,  seems  of  all  things  most 
desirable.  But  this  is  foolish  ;  and  if  my  heart  go  not  forth  into  the 
world  to  lose  its  delicacy,  those  who  know  me  will  not  judge  me 
harshly  that  my  name  is  there,  even  though  it  be  sometimes  rudely 
spoken." 

During  this  period,  she  was  once  called  to  apply  to  herself 
that  consoling  faith  which  she  could  so  eloquently  recommend 

*  A  female  character  in  one  of  her  tales. 


80  MEMOIR. 

to  others.  Her  friend,  Mrs.  Scott,  died  March  5th,  1842. 
Many  years  of  ill  health  had  somewhat  prepared  her  for  the 
loss;  and  in  her  correspondence  she  often  speaks  of  the  event 
as  anticipated.  And  when  it  came,  she  was  found  cheerful, 
and  full  of  trust,  as  becomes  one  who  has  learned  in  pros 
perity  to  rely  upon  that  power  whose  chastenings  are  bless 
ings.  Yet  she  deeply  felt  her  present  loss ;  for  in  the  so 
ciety  of  this  friend  she  had  found  her  earliest  and  highest 
sympathy.  In  tastes  and  opinions  they  greatly  resembled  each 
other,  though  very  different  in  temperament. 

It  was  the  dying  wish  of  her  friend  that  she  should  edit  her 
writings  for  publication,  and  this  was  accordingly  done.  The 
volume  appeared  in  the  autumn  of  1843,  and  consisted  of  se 
lections  from  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Scott,  to  which  was  prefixed  a 
brief  but  affectionate  notice  of  her  life. 

After  such  a  tribute  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  add 
anything  to  the  adequate  representation  of  the  character  of 
this  lamented  woman.  I  have  known  her  only  through  her 
friends,  her  poems,  and  correspondence.  And  there  are  few 
whose  spirit  has  so  impressed  itself  upon  everything  with 
which  it  came  in  contact,  as  hers.  Possessing  a  temperament 
constitutionally  ardent,  and  sensitive  to  the  slightest  impres 
sions,  dependent  to  the  last  degree  for  happiness  upon  the 
love  of  friends,  yet  upborne  by  an  enthusiastic  love  of  truth, 
and  a  noble  heroism  in  the  endurance  of  suffering  encountered 
in  the  way  of  duty;  with  a  ceaseless  longing  for  an  ideal 
excellence,  which,  in  the  feeble  state  of  her  health,  doubtless, 
hastened  the  termination  of  her  earthly  existence,  she 
could  not  fail  to  win  the  interest  and  love  of  all  who  knew 
her.  I  should  say,  that  enthusiasm,  in  the  best  sense  of  the 
term,  was  her  prominent  characteristic.  She  lived  with  that 
intensity  of  being  which,  although  we  are  unable  to  resist  its 
charms,  makes  us  tremble  for  the  mortal  part  which  feebly 
holds  so  much  power  and  aspiration.  The  acquaintance  was 
peculiarly  valuable  from  this  difference  in  the  temperament  of 
the  two  friends ;  for  never  was  one  more  happily  constituted 
to  soothe  and  allay  the  fever  of  soul  than  Sarah.  The  atmos 
phere  in  which  she  moved  was  full  of  peace ;  and  Julia  was 


MEMOIR. 


81 


not  the  only  one  among  her  friends  who  has  blessed  her  for 
the  calm  influences  which  have  enveloped  him  in  hours  of 
great  mental  and  moral  unrest.  Mrs.  Scott  was,  also,  admir 
ably  qualified  to  cheer  her  companion,  and  supply  that  motive 
power  in  which  natures  so  quiet  are  usually  deficient.  This 
contrast  only  cemented  their  love  more  firmly ;  a  love  which, 
interrupted  upon  earth,  is  now,  we  trust,  consummated  in  a 
higher  state.  Sarah  never  could  forget  a  friend,  and,  through 
her  subsequent  life,  her  affection  for  her  earliest  literary  asso 
ciate  constantly  increased. 

In  the  death  of  Mrs.  Scott,  the  religious  order  of  which  she 
was  a  member  sustained  a  loss  that  has  never  been  repaid. 
Her  poems  are  peculiar  and  excellent  of  their  kind.  In  the 
sphere  of  domestic  and  religious  sentiment,  she  must  be  ac 
knowledged  to  stand  at  the  head  of  the  female  denominational 
writers.  Most  of  her  productions  were  written  under  the 
pressure  of  affliction  or  illness ;  and  if,  at  times,  the  sufferer 
or  the  invalid  appears  too  prominently,  the  compensation  is 
more  than  given  in  the  cheering  faith  which  brightens  her  sad 
dest  meditations.  The  published  volume  of  her  poems  is  one 
of  the  books  to  which  we  often  go  for  that  refreshment  af 
forded  by  the  union  of  elevating  sentiments  and  a  poetic 
imagination;  and  to  her  may  unhesitatingly  be  given  the 
name  so  rarely  deserved  —  a  Christian  poet. 

Compensation  is  the  law  of  our  earthly  existence,  and  it  did 
not  fail  in  this  instance ;  for  the  year  succeeding  that  which 
deprived  Sarah  of  one  friend,  gave  her  another  in  the  person 
of  "  Charlotte."  I  think  her  acquaintance  with  Miss  C.  A. 
Fillibrowne,  began  in  the  summer  of  1842,  and  it  was  not 
long  in  ripening  to  a  devoted  attachment.  There  is  a  record 
of  a  week  spent  by  them  in  Lowell  together,  at  this  time,  in 
the  society  of  friends,  which  in  their  correspondence  forms 
a  constant  topic  of  pleasant  reminiscence.  The  freshness 
and  sincerity  of  Charlotte's  nature  at  once  gained  the  heart  of 
her  friend.  Her  sparkling  humor  and  quick  perception  of  the 
ludicrous  were  an  additional  attraction  to  one  who  was  all 
her  life  a  most  devoted  disciple  to  the  religion  of  wit  and 
mirth ;  while  a  congeniality  of  literary  pursuits  added  the  last 


82  MEMOIR, 

bond,  necessary  to  cement  this  happy  union  of  hearts.  Sarah 
also  was  the  elder,  and,  in  many  things,  the  instructor  and 
advisor  of  Charlotte.  Their  correspondence  is  beautifully 
characteristic,  and  a  model  of  a  high  sincere  intercourse  be 
tween  friends,  possessing  the  rare  charm  of  discussing  the 
most  common  details  of  news  and  domestic  life,  in  a  spirit  and 
tact  as  far  removed  from  the  sentimental  as  the  prosaic.  In 
the  summer  of  1843,  Charlotte  spent  several  weeks  at  Shirley 
village.  The  friends,  with  Sarah's  brother,  led,  for  a  few 
weeks,  a  life  of  perfect  gypsy  freedom.  Every  pond,  and 
stream,  every  hill-top,  or  path  running  away  into  the  woods, 
was  explored ;  whole  days  spent  out  of  doors ;  or,  if  anything 
detained  them  within,  employed  in  a  manner  that  would  have 
upset  the  gravity  of  the  most  severe  advocate  of  household 
discipline.  At  the  close  of  this  time,  they  went  together  to 
the  city  and  employed  their  leisure  in  reading  or  visiting  the 
rooms  of  artists,  to  which  they  were  generously  admitted 
by  some  friends  who  are  now  among  names  the  best  known 
in  American  art.  I  regret  that  the  strictly  confidential  nature 
of  this  correspondence  prevents  me  from  extracting  largely  for 
the  present  memoir.  Of  this  friendship,  increasing  in  strength 
and  beauty,  till  it  was  also  interrupted  by  the  death  of  Char 
lotte,  I  shall  say  more  in  the  progress  of  my  narrative. 

In  the  spring  of  1842, 1  saw  her  for  the  first  time,  at  Shir 
ley  village.  Coming  from  a  distant  part  of  the  country,  and 
not  being  in  the  way  of  the  periodical  publications  for  which 
she  wrote,  I  had  never  before  heard  her  name.  My  acquaint 
ance,  therefore,  began  with  the  woman.  I  met  her  but  twice, 
once  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  and  a  second  evening  at  a  small 
family  party  in  her  own  home.  I  was  attracted  by  the  quiet, 
womanly  grace  of  her  manners.  She  did  not  converse  very 
freely,  though  her  remarks  were  characterized  by  beauty  of 
expression,  and  especially  by  a  vivid  power  in  description. 
But  the  great  charm  about  her  was,  the  unconscious  expres 
sion  of  a  beautiful  soul,  which  no  diffidence  of  manner,  or 
hesitancy  of  speech  could  repress.  She  impressed  every  one 
who  came  near  her  with  a  perfect  confidence  in  the  quiet 
affectionateness  of  her  nature.  Her  deep  tender  eyes,  and 


MEMOIR.  00 

her  face,  from  which  a  cheerful  and  sympathetic  expression 
was  never  absent,  could  not  fail  to  win  the  heart  of  the  most 
indifferent.  And  I  was  also  impressed  by  the  perfect  unity  of 
spirit  which  seemed  to  pervade  the  family  circle  ;  a  unity  so 
complete  that  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  each  seemed  to  be 
anticipated  by  the  rest,  almost  before  they  could  be  uttered. 
Soon  after  these  pleasant  evenings  I  returned  home,  and  neither 
saw  or  heard  of  her  until  the  winter  of  1843-4. 

During  this  period,  up  to  the  commencement  of  the  year 
1844,  her  mental  and  religious  culture  had  steadily  advanced. 
Her  acquaintance  with  English  literature  was  greatly  ex 
tended  ;  and  she  had  made  considerable  progress  in  the  study 
of  the  Latin  and  French  languages.  She  also  acquired  a  very 
correct  knowledge  of  botany,  and  read  many  popular  works 
upon  the  other  natural  sciences.  History  was  not  neglected, 
and  biography,  and  fictitious  reading  were  frequent  subjects 
of  attention.  Her  library  had  increased,  and  when  I  saw  her 
first,  consisted  of  four  or  five  hundred  well  selected  volumes. 

Among  the  modern  English  poets,  her  favorite  author  at 
this  time  was  Wordsworth.  His  quiet  flow  of  thought,  and 
his  hopeful  spirit,  accorded  well  with  her  own  temperament. 
The  beautiful  simplicity  of  his  diction,  also,  was  an  object  of 
her  admiration,  and  the  influence  of  it  can  be  traced  in  the 
formation  of  her  later  style,  which  in  prose  and  verse  is  char 
acterized  by  ease  and  purity.  She  retained  her  love  for 
Wordsworth  till  the  close  of  her  life,  although  afterwards  more 
attracted  by  other  poets.  Shakspeare  was  also  her  constant 
study.  She  had  already  outgrown  an  early  fondness  for  the 
poetry  of  Byron  and  Mrs.  Hemans ;  repelled  from  the  former 
by  that  diseased  selfishness  which  must  at  last  destroy  the 
interest  of  every  genuine  mind  in  his  writings ;  and  from  the 
latter  by  the  false  view  of  life  and  the  religious  sentimentalism 
which,  like  a  jingle  of  harsh  bells,  so  often  break  the  harmony 
of  her  thought  and  versification.  For  the  poets  of  the  school 
of  Pope  she  had  no  respect,  and  Moore  and  the  tribe  of  senti 
mentalists  were  equally  offensive  to  her.  I  think  she  then 
read  Shakspeare,  Wordsworth,  and  Burns,  almost  to  the  ex 
clusion  of  others.  In  prose,  she  was  principally  attracted  to 


84  MEMOIR. 

Carlyle,  Lamb,  Scott,  and  Charming-.  She  had  also  frequent 
opportunities,  during  her  visits  to  the  city,  to  cultivate  a  taste 
for  art,  by  examining  the  best  works,  in  the  company  of  com 
petent  critics. 

Of  her  progress  in  spiritual  things,  we  can  judge  by  the 
highest  of  proofs,  the  increasing  beauty  of  her  character.  Her 
religious  sympathies  were  becoming  broader,  and  though  her 
attachment  to  the  faith  of  her  childhood  deepened  yearly,  it 
was  displayed  by  a  growing  aversion  to  sectarianism.  She 
had  little  sympathy  with  those  who  would  make  the  doctrine 
of  God's  Universal  Love  a  foundation  for  narrow  religious 
clanship,  and  though  never  exerting  herself  in  a  public  man 
ner  to  intrude  her  own  opinions  upon  others,  she  cherished  in 
her  heart  the  longing  of  the  highest  spirits  of  our  time  for  a 
more  complete  unity  of  Christendom.  The  Christian  trust 
with  which  she  met  the  loss  of  her  friend  Mrs.  Scott,  is  a 
proof  that  she  had  overcome  the  fear  of  death,  and  attained 
that  faith  which  prepares  one  equally  for  the  discipline  of 
earth  or  the  employments  of  the  future. 

Early  in  the  year  1844,  I  went  to  Shirley  village  to  spend 
a  college  vacation  in  teaching.  Our  acquaintance  was  renewed, 
and  very  soon  ripened  into  love,  which  resulted  in  an  engage 
ment  of  marriage.  From  this  time  I  shall  fortunately  be  able 
to  speak  of  her  from  recollection,  as  her  correspondence  becomes 
less  available  every  succeeding  year ;  and  I  trust,  the  frequent 
appearance  of  my  own  person  in  the  narrative  will  be  excused, 
when  it  is  remembered  that  henceforth  the  history  of  our  lives 
was  too  closely  interwoven,  to  be  separated.  Our  literary 
pursuits  were  upon  common  ground ;  —  we  studied  and  read 
and  wrote  together,  and  in  all  spiritual  things  were  of  one 
mind. 

Love  with  her  was  a  passion  that  carried  with  it  her  whole 
nature.  It  did  not  begin  and  end  in  dreams  of  unattainable 
earthly  felicity,  or  unfit  her  for  the  realities  of  life ;  but  was 
manifested  to  others  chiefly  by  increased  desire  for  mental  and 
moral  culture.  Thus  we  may  truly  date  from  this  winter  a 
new  epoch  in  her  life ;  for  afterwards  she  studied  with  more 
regularity  and  care,  and  read  with  greater  discrimination,  and 


MEMOIR.  86 

her  exertions  for  excellence  in  literary  composition  were  more 
intense  and  sustained.  In  this  she  was  aided  by  the  sympa 
thy  and  advice  of  her  brother,  then  in  college,  and  of  another 
friend,  to  whom  we  all  owe  more  than  I  can  ever  express,  and 
whose  public  labors  in  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord,  faithful  as 
they  may  be,  can  never  bring  to  him  a  more  sincere  tribute 
of  affection,  than  our  united  love,  now  hallowed  by  the  depart 
ure  of  two  of  our  little  company.  Neither  can  we  forget  in 
this  connection  others,  who  are  bound  by  the  same  ties ;  — 
friends  gained  at  this  time,  or  henceforth  more  dearly  loved 
because  better  known. 

This  winter  was  not  so  much  devoted  to  literary  pursuits  as 
usual.  The  marriage  of  her  elder  sister  called  for  more  than 
ordinary  exertion  in  domestic  duties.  Yet  was  a  foundation 
laid  for  much  future  improvement.  She  passed  many  even 
ings  in  reading,  in  company  with  her  brother  and  myself. 
Her  range  of  authors  was  much  enlarged  by  the  opportunity 
of  obtaining  books  from  the  libraries  of  Cambridge  and  Am- 
herst.  Among  those  read  this  winter  I  remember  the  works 
of  Joanna  Bailie,  Macaulay's  Essays,  and  Percy's  English 
Ballads.  Beside  these,  we  read  much  of  Wordsworth.  Those 
golden  evenings  are  woven  up  into  a  picture  which  will  never 
lose  its  bright  colors  —  evenings  more  welcomed  after  days  of 
toil  in  the  village  school-room,  when  we  read  and  talked 
together,  and  after  our  humble  manner  contemplated  the  em 
ployments  of  future  years,  and  imparted  and  received  aid  in 
the  Christian  life.  Well  may  I  remember  them,  for  then  first 
was  I  awakened  to  the  reality  of  spiritual  things,  and  the 
floating  aspirations  of  my  youth  concentrated  into  determined 
purpose.  Through  my  love  for  her  I  was  unconsciously  led  to 
the  love  of  God,  and  the  longing  for  a  high  and  Christian  life. 

At  the  close  of  my  school  term,  we  separated.  Her  brother 
John  went  to  Cambridge,  and  I  to  Amherst,  and  she  returned 
to  her  usual  employments.  Preparations  for  the  "  Rose"  occu 
pied  her  during  the  spring,  interrupted  only  by  a  short  visit  to 
Lowell,  and  by  an  increase  of  domestic  employments.  The 
family  circle  was  now  broken  by  a  new  household  arrangement. 
Two  of  her  brothers  yet  lived  in  the  old  mansion,  which  was 
8 


86  MEMOIR. 

converted  into  a  hotel  to  meet  the  increasing  wants  of  the 
village,  through  which  a  railroad  was  now  building ;  and  the 
remainder  of  the  family,  father,  mother,  one  sister,  and 
three  younger  brothers,  removed  to  a  pleasant  cottage,  separ 
ated  from  it  only  by  a  garden.  This  removal  was  commem 
orated  by  a  little  poem,  written  in  her  happiest  manner,  which 
will  be  found  in  the  selections  of  this  volume. 

Early  in  the  summer  I  was  obliged,  by  complete  prostration 
of  health,  to  leave  college  and  suspend  my  studies.  My 
debility  was  so  great  that  I  did  little,  through  the  summer  and 
autumn,  but  travel  and  use  various  other  methods  for  recovery. 
Sarah  went  to  Boston  to  superintend  the  printing  of  the  "  Rose." 
During  this  absence  from  home,  most  of  her  time  was  spent 
with  her  sister  at  Waltham  and  with  her  friend  Charlotte, 
then  married  to  Mr.  .T.  W.  Jarauld.  A  few  days  were  also 
passed  at  Medford  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bacon,  then  in  deep 
affliction  for  the  loss  of  a  beautiful  child.  New  ties  had  only 
deepened  her  attachment  for  old  friends,  and  the  days  passed 
with  those  beloved  ones,  are  described,  in  her  letters  to  me,  as 
among  the  happiest  of  her  life. 

She  returned  home  in  August,  and  I  saw  her  a  few  weeks 
in  autumn,  in  company  with  one  of  her  female  friends.  My 
own  health  not  being  reestablished,  I  returned  to  spend  the 
winter  at  home.  She  was  employed  during  the  remainder  of 
the  autumn  and  winter  in  the  preparation  of  a  little  volume  of 
poems,  in  study  and  domestic  employments. 

During  this  year  she  wrote  little  for  the  Repository.  The 
"  Rose"  contained  the  usual  number  of  articles  from  her  pen, 
most  of  which  are  superior  to  the  average  of  her  former  pro 
ductions.  The  most  obvious  improvement  is  in  her  style, 
which  is  more  chaste  and  expressive  than  in  any  former  year. 
"  The  Fables  of  Flora,"  is  a  little  book,  edited  at  this  time, 
containing  the  fables  of  Dr.  Langhorn,  interspersed  with  sev 
eral  of  her  own.  Many  of  those  are  among  the  most  graceful 
poems  she  ever  wrote. 

The  study  of  French  was  resumed  this  year,  and  never 
afterwards  suspended.  Her  reading  in  the  language  was  con 
fined  principally  to  the  plays  of  Moliere.  Botany  and  History 


MEMOIK.  87 

were  also  continued,  and  Moral  Philosophy  begun.  To  the 
authors  read  in  the  winter  of  which  I  have  before  spoken,  I 
may  add  Wilson  and  Channing.  She  also  began  to  read  the 
poetry  of  Coleridge  and  Tenneyson.  These  writers,  especially 
the  latter,  were  closely  studied  from  this  time.  Among 
American  writers,  Dana  most  interested  her.  I  have  never 
witnessed  more  unceasing  endeavors  for  improvement  than  in 
her  during  this  year. 

This  period  was  not  wanting  in  circumstances  to  develop 
her  religious  character.  The  accession  of  every  new  friend, 
was  a  new  call  to  duty,  and  human  ties  only  bound  her  more 
firmly  to  heaven.  My  own  illness,  and  absence  from  study, 
were  a  source  of  equal  anxiety  to  us,  and  in  addition  to  her 
own  sorrow  she  was  obliged  to  exert  all  her  energies  to  cheer 
me,  and  avert  the  unfavorable  consequences  of  the  extreme 
dejection  attendant  upon  nervous  derangement  and  bodily 
weakness.  Her  domestic  duties  increased,  and  often  inter 
rupted  her  literary  pursuits  and  correspondence.  Sickness  in 
her  own  house  was  also  added  to  her  trials.  But  these  only 
aroused  the  hidden  strength  of  her  nature.  Always  cheerful 
and  hopeful,  she  labored  without  intermission,  and  often 
beyond  her  strength.  We  heard  .  no  word  of  impatience  or 
complaint,  and  the  times  when  care  was  pressing  most  heavily 
upon  her  were  those  when  the  sunlight  of  her  presence  was 
beaming  most  cheerfully  upon  all  around. 

From  the  few  letters  she  wrote  to  friends  this  year  I  select 
the  following  passages.  Most  of  her  correspondence  was  with 
myself,  but  few  extracts  of  which  can  appear  in  this  memoir. 

An  illustration  of  her  spirit  of  Christian  liberality  we  find 
in  a  note  to  Rev.  H.  Bacon,  now  editor  of  the  Reposi 
tory  :  — 

"  Respecting  an  alteration  in  the  name  of  the  '  Repository,'  what  I 
shall  say  will  not  be  worth  much  in  your  decision.  I  do  not  think, 
however,  that  I  should  advise  the  addition  of  the  word  '  Universalist.' 
Let  the  principles  of  pure  Christianity  be  freely  set  forth  in  the  work, 
and  none  but  a  bigot,  or  persons  of  narrow  views  respecting  the  true 
motives  of  Christian  labor,  would  complain  because  the  sign  was  not 
held  out  to  tell  them  that  we  belonged  to  a  sect.  I  am  as  much  — 


88  MEMOIE. 

yes,  more  a  Universalist  than  ever — but  I  will  have  the  whole  world 
to  range  through  if  I  wish,  and  be  limited  by  no  walls  of  party." 

And  in  a  letter  to  myself  she  says  :  — 

"  I  sometimes  almost  wish  I  were  a  man  and  a  minister.  The  first 
step  I  would  take  would  be  to  the  battle-field ;  not  to  war  against 
false  theories,  but  to  strike  hard  blows  at  the  sectarian  bigotry  that 
builds  up  such  high  walls  of  partition  between  those  who  should  be 
of  one  household.  It  is  not  altogether  bigotry,  either,  that  does  the 
mischief,  though  it  had  its  birth  in  bigotry  ;  it  is  a  sort  of  distrust 
which  those  of  one  party  feel  towards  those  of  the  same  sentiments 
called  by  a  different  name.  I  have  been  secretly  indignant  upon  this 
subject  for  a  number  of  years,  and  I  think  it  possible  the  fire  will 
blaze  out  one  of  these  days — not  very  fiercely,  I  daresay  —  but  suffi 
ciently  perhaps  to  throw  light  into  a  few  minds  that  are  waiting  for 
such  light.  I  know,  from  what  you  have  said  in  your  letter,  and  else 
where,  that  we  sympathize  upon  this  subject,  as  we  do  upon  every 
other." 

In  April,  she  writes  :  — 

"  I  think  you  cannot  in  the  city  feel  the  luxury  of  a  day  like  this, 
so  much  as  we  do  in  the  country.  The  air  all  soft  and  balmy,  the 
sun  faintly  beaming  through  the  thin  clouds  —  the  birds  singing  so 
gayly  —  the  brook  rushing  joyfully  through  the  alder-copse  —  the 
green  grass  visibly  growing  —  everything,  in  short,  so  gladsome  and 
so  animate  !  And  then,  in  the  midst  of  these,  to  have  a  healthy  body 
and  a  happy  heart!" 

To  her  friend,  Mrs.  Bacon,  she  writes,  after  returning  home 
from  Boston,  where  she  had  come  to  deposit  the  body  of  her 
child:  — 

"  I  was  not  surprised  at  what  you  told  me  of  the  change  in  your 
feelings  since  your  return  home.  It  was  unavoidable.  The  heroic 
calmness  with  which  you  met  and  struggled  with  your  first  days  of 
trial,  made  demands  upon  your  nervous  energies  which  could  not  be 
always  supplied.  That  moments  of  weakness  and  spiritual  agony 
have  followed,  is  no  evidence  that  your  faith  is  not  still  sufficient  to 
console  and  support  you.  The  body  will  in  a  measure  control  the 
spirit ;  and  when  our  nerves  give  way,  we  have  no  power  to  strug 
gle  with  sorrow.  Joy  will  return  to  you,  my  dear  friend  —  I  know 
it  will.  Time  will  accustom  you  to  Mary's  absence,  and  though  you 
will  never  forget  her,  or  wish  to  shut  her  from  your  thoughts,  you 


MEMOIR.  89 

will  find  other  duties  supplying  the  place  of  those  you  once  owed  to 
her,  and  will  not  find  it  so  difficult  to  live  without  her,  as  it  is  now, 
while  the  void  is  yet  unfilled.  It  seems  cold  philosophy,  I  know, 
this  idea  of  bringing  other  affections  into  the  place  of  those  that  are 
bereft ;  but  our  Father  has  placed  us  here  to  find  our  happiness  in 
blessing  those  around  us ;  and  when  he  takes  any  of  these  dear 
objects  away,  he  signifies  by  the  act  that  our  duty  to  these  is  fin 
ished —  that  we  have  done  them  all  the  good  we  can  —  that  other 
objects  of  kindness  and  interest  must  come  in  to  claim  the  cares  that 
they  no  longer  need.  Oh,  we  have  a  priceless  faith  !  We  lay  our 
loved  ones  in  the  arms  of  God,  and  feel  in  our  deepest  souls  that  all 
is  well  with  them.  We  have  no  fears  for  their  future  welfare.  We 
know  that  they  are,  and  will  be  eternally,  happy.  We  know  that  we 
shall  soon  meet  them  again,  never  to  part.  When  we  commune  with 
God,  we  feel  that  we  are  communing  with  one  who  has  our  treasures 
in  his  keeping.  Were  Mary  absent  from  you  upon  earth,  you  would 
have  constant  fears  that  some  ill  might  betide  her.  But  now  you 
know  that  evil  can  never  touch  your  immortal  one.  For  your  earthly 
child  you  dread  sickness  and  sin ;  for  your  heavenly  child  you  are 
confident  of  unbroken  purity  and  bliss.  For  your  mortal  child  you 
fear  an  early  death  —  for  your  immortal  child  you  are  sure  of  eternal 
life.  True  you  can  never  with  your  fleshly  eyes  behold  the  darling 
you  have  lost ;  but  in  the  spirit-land  you  shall  behold  her  again,  and 
clasp  her  in  your  arms  with  an  ecstatic  bliss  you  could  never  feel  had 
you  not  been  thus  early  separated.  Is  there  not  rich  consolation  in 
thoughts  like  these? — Do  not  struggle  strongly  with  your  grief. 
Give  way  to  your  tears  when  you  feel  like  weeping.  Struggle  with 
despondent  thoughts  as  much  as  you  are  able  ;  but  do  not  try  to  put 
on  smiles  when  you  do  not  feel  them,  nor,  indeed,  make  any  violent 
efforts  to  suppress  nervous  emotion.  This  feeling  that  one  ought  not 
to  weep,  is  productive  of  evil.  We  ought  to  insist  upon  calm  and 
trustful  thoughts ;  but  if  tender  yearnings  fill  our  souls,  it  is  better 
for  us  to  weep  till  we  are  relieved,  than  to  irritate  ourselves  by  efforts 
to  restrain  our  tears." 

A  few  days  after  my  return  from  my  autumn  visit,  she 
writes  to  me  :  — 

"  This  has  been  a  glorious  day  —  both  in  the  inner  and  outer  world. 

S and  I  walked  up  to  the  '  Old  Dam,'  where  we  came  so  near 

falling  into  the  stream  a  week  ago.  It  was  very  still  and  beautiful 
there,  with  the  sunshine  around  us,  the  glory  of  the  woods,  and  the 
soft  ripple  of  the  stream  over  the  mossy  stones.  We  sat  down  and 


90  MEMOIR. 

talked  of  you,  and  wished  most  intensely  that  you  were  with  ua. 
After  dinner  we  took  another  long  walk  by  Bow-Brook  near  its  junc 
ture  with  the  Nashua.  After  our  return  I  wrote  another  little  fable, 
upon  the  subject  you  suggested.  I  will  aend  you  a  copy  of  it.  Will 
you  not  tell  me  its  faults?  —  for  I  know  it  has  many.  I  have  spent 
several  hours  upon  it,  but  am  afraid  it  is  good  for  nothing,  after  all. 
We  have  read  more  of  Wilson  to-day.  He  is  full  of  poetry  which 
might  inspire  me  perhaps,  if  it  would  but  stop  in  my  head  instead  of 
running  down  into  my  heart  so  swiftly.  To-night  we  have  listened 
to  Tennyson.  Reading  him  is  like  entering  a  glade,  half  sunshine, 
half  shadow,  where  many  strange  wild  birds  are  singing  that  you 
never  heard  before." 

In  a  letter  to  a  friend  she  gives  a  picture  of  herself :  — 

"  I  have  come  once  more  to  my  '  pretty  green-covered  table,'  which 
occupies  the  place  that  the  plants  did  when  you  were  here.  We 
have  removed  all  but  a  few  of  the  most  healthy  to  the  cellar,  and  those 
that  remain  stand  on  the  window-seat  before  me.  A  vase  of  green 
laurel,  and  a  bottle  of  Cologne  water,  (your  gifts,)  occupy  the  centre 
of  the  table  —  and  surrounding  these,  are  scattered  a  large  quantity 
of  books,  papers,  an  inkstand,  pens,  pencil,  pen-wiper,  and  a  port 
folio,  belonging  to  the  '  gifted  authoress.'  The  last  mentioned  '  sun 
dry'  sits  in  a  flag-bottomed  chair,  dressed  in  a  ninepenny  calico  and 
black  silk  apron,  with  some  new  bugle-tasselled  hair-pins  dangling 
on  her  neck,  and  a  gold  pencil  stuck  in  behind  the  jet  breast-pin  at 
her  throat.  Her  hands  bear  strong  marks  of  apple-paring,  having, 
with  mother's  and  sister's  aid,  just  accomplished  the  important  busi 
ness  of  making  a  large  barrel  of  apple-sauce ;  and  one  eye,  I  regret 
to  say,  looks  quite  unlovely  from  a  painful  inflammation  in  the  under 
lid.  Considering  all  things,  however,  your  'sis'  looks  rather  gen 
teel,  and  feels  very  comfortable  and  happy." 

She  thus  speaks  of  Channing :  — 

"  I  account  Dr.  Channing  the  greatest  man,  the  noblest  philan 
thropist  our  country  has  produced.  To  me  all  glory  of  statesmanship, 
all  greatness  of  military  skill,  all  pride  of  scholarship,  seem  mean  and 
earthborn  contrasted  with  a  conscience  so  upright,  and  a  spirit  so  liberal 
as  his." 

The  beginning  of  the  year  1845  found  us  quietly  estab 
lished  in  our  respective  homes,  pursuing  our  favorite  studies. 
Her  brother  was  with  her,  having  engaged  in  teaching  during 


MEMOIR.  91 

the  winter  months,  and  she  enjoyed  his  society,  with  that  of 
a  few  others,  who  were  interested  in  literary  pursuits.  Per 
haps  this  was  one  of  the  calmest  and  happiest  periods  of  her 
life  ;  for  she  could  look  back  upon  an  active  and  useful  past, 
and  forward  to  a  golden  future.  Her  anxieties  for  my  own 
health  were  relieved,  and  her  hopes  elated  by  the  rapidly 
developing  mind  of  her  brother,  for  whom  she  had  engaged  in 
so  many  difficult  labors.  A  letter  to  her  friend  Charlotte, 
contains  a  graphic  picture  of  her  at  this  time  :  — 

"  I  am  now  free  from  any  pressing  engagements,  either  literary 
or  domestic  ;  but  have  laid  out  a  course  of  study  for  the  winter, 
which,  if  I  faithfully  follow,  will  keep  me  very  busy.  I  am  still 
pursuing  French,  which  I  shall  not  quit  till  I  have  mastered  it ;  and 
added  to  this,  I  have  just  commenced  German  under  John's  instruction. 
I  get  a  lesson  in  each  every  alternate  day.  Evenings  I  give  to  writ 
ing,  and  the  study  of  the  poets.  I  am  now  engaged  on  Wordsworth 
and  Dana.  *****  J_)o  you  think  you  can  come  and  make  me 
a  visit,  this  winter,  after  the  cars  run  to  Shirley  1  Why  not  make 
your  arrangements  to  return  with  me,  when  I  am  down  ?  It  will  be 
but  a  two  hours'  ride,  and  we  will  have  such  a  cosy,  pleasant  time, 
with  John  and  Mayo  to  help  us  make  fun.  Think  of  it  seriously,  and 
resolve  to  come,  will  you  not  ?  We  have  pleasant  dances  in  our  village 
occasionally,  which  you  would  like  to  attend.  *****  You  ought 
to  peep  into  our  pleasant  little  room,  this  evening.  You  would  see 
mother  sitting  in  one  corner,  knitting,  John  and  Charles  at  one  table, 
studying,  Mary  near  me,  sewing,  and  I  seated  with  dignity  at  my 
own  pretty  round  table,  over  which  is  spread  a  green-flowered  cover, 
and  on  which  lie  numerous  books  ;  a  dish  of  green  mosses  and  laurel, 
gathered  and  arranged  by  Mayo,  occupies  the  centre  of  the  table; 
beside  this  stands  a  little  blue  Cologne-bottle ;  next,  my  well-filled 
portfolio,  a  box  of  wafers,  and  an  excellent  steel  pen.  As  for  me, 
myself,  I  am  attired  in  a  new  dark  ninepenny  calico,  black  silk  apron, 
gold  chain  and  pencil,  breastpin,  spectacles,  hair  combed  over  my 
ears,  and  two  bugle-tasselled  hair-pins,  dangling  down  upon  my  neck. 
Is  not  the  picture  enticing?  *****  J  have  filled  my  sheet, 
and  it  is  now  time  to  go  to  bed.  I  am  sorry  that,  after  so  long  a 
silence,  I  have  found  nothing  more  interesting  to  write  you,  but  I 
live  so  much  in  my  own  little  world  of  thought,  that  I  know  nothing 
of  what  is  going  on  about  me." 


92  MEMOIR. 

In  January  I  accompanied  her  to  Waltham,  the  residence 
of  her  married  sister,  and  Boston.  A  pleasant  fortnight  was 
passed  in  visits  among  her  friends.  I  recall  it  with  greater 
pleasure,  as  it  was  the  only  time  I  saw  Charlotte.  A  week 
spent  at  her  house  is  an  event  in  my  life  not  to  be  forgotten. 
It  was  beautiful  to  witness  the  affectionate  intercourse  of  these 
women,  so  unlike,  yet  so  engrossed  in  each  other's  love.  All 
the  reserve  and  thoughtful  repose  of  Sarah's  manners  were 
no  proof  against  the  irresistible  merriment  of  her  friend,  —  a 
gayety  that  never  concealed  her  depth  of  feeling,  but  rather 
seemed  its  most  appropriate  manifestation.  Other  friends 
were  also  visited,  and  then  first  did  I  know  him  who  has  been 
to  us  ever  since  more  than  a  brother,  and  whom  we  loved  as 
much  for  his  generous  heart,  as  we  admired  for  his  gifted 
intellect. 

We  returned  together  to  her  home,  refreshed  by  our  excur 
sion,  and  desirous  to  carry  out  those  plans  of  improvement 
that  had  been  suggested  by  contact  with  other  minds.  At 
her  solicitation  I  was  persuaded  to  renounce  my  intention  of 
returning  to  college,  —  a  measure  which,  in  my  feeble  state  of 
health,  would  have  been  attended  with  great  danger.  I  also 
now  matured  the  plan  which  had  long  been  floating  in  my 
mind,  of  devoting  my  life  to  the  Gospel  ministry.  Her  joy 
at  this  determination  was  a  new  incentive  to  efforts  of  self- 
culture.  I  returned  home,  full  of  hope,  and  with  the  means 
furnished  by  the  kindness  of  friends  for  pursuing  my  studies 
alone  until  I  should  be  able  to  avail  myself  of  other  advantages. 

The  remainder  of  the  winter  and  spring  was  passed  by  her 
in  diligent  study.  One  mournful  event,  however,  interrupted 
the  quiet  of  the  household  —  the  death  of  "Lizzy,"  a  beautiful 
child  of  her  brother's.  A  poem  descriptive  of  this  gifted  little 
creature  will  be  found  in  the  present  selection,  written  a  year 
before.  But  she  had  now  attained  that  perfect  faith  in  God, 
which  could  sustain  her  under  any  affliction.  Two  of  her 
dearest  friends  had  already  been  taken  away,  and  the  death 
of  this  little  one  was  but  the  beginning  of  a  series  of  family 
bereavements,  each  of  which  found  her  calmer  and  nearer 
heaven. 


MEMOIR.  93 

The  winter  passed  rapidly  away.  In  March,  she  writes 
thus  to  Charlotte  :  — 

"  It  is  really  spring  in  the  country.  The  snow  is  all  gone,  except 
a  few  small  spots,  and  the  birds  are  singing,  you  can't  think  how 
merrily.  My  heart  is  really  quite  thawed  out,  and  begins  to  flow 
like  Bow-Brook.  Have  you  no  yearning  to  visit  this  little  stream 
once  more  ?  Why  will  you  not,  unless  new  and  important  ties  for 
bid,  pay  me  and  the  stream  a  visit  this  summer  1  It  will  take  you 
only  two  hours  to  come  ;  and  you  can  run  home  any  time  when  you 
are  tired  of  us.  Please  give  the  subject  a  serious  thought.  *  *  *  * 
I  have  nothing  to  write  you,  for  I  see  nobody.  From  morning  till 
night  I  may  be  found  at  my  writing-table,  at  the  south-east  corner 
of  the  cottage  sitting-room,  sometimes  reading  German,  sometimes 
French,  sometimes  English,  and  occasionally  scribbling  a  piece  of 
rhyme,  or  a  letter  to  a  friend.  I  enjoy  myself  as  well  as  I  ever  did 
in  my  life,  and  perhaps  as  well  as  I  ever  expect  to  ;  for  I  have  few 
cares,  except  such  as  are  pleasant  to  me,  sufficient  leisure  to  pursue 
my  favorite  occupations,  and  agreeable  hopes  to  throw  their  sunshine 
over  the  future." 

We  were  together  again  in  April,  and  made  a  short  visit  to 
the  city,  then  returned  to  our  homes  ;  she  to  begin  the  yearly 
labor  upon  the  "  Rose,"  and  I  to  commence  my  theological  stud 
ies.  During  the  summer  she  was  employed  at  home  upon  the 
annual,  it  being  the  first  season  she  could  remain  in  the  coun 
try  while  it  went  to  press.  In  August,  she  accompanied  her 
brother  and  myself  upon  a  tour  through  the  northern  portion 
of  Massachusetts  and  the  southern  towns  of  New  Hampshire. 
It  was  her  first  opportunity  of  witnessing  the  finest  country 
scenery,  and  the  days  she  spent  among  the  mountains  and  in 
the  fine  woods  of  this  beautiful  region  she  never  forgot.  We 
journeyed  upon  the  top  of  a  stage-coach,  and  enjoyed  fully  the 
pleasure  of  this  mode  of  travelling;  carried  through  long  tracts 
of  quiet  woodland ;  sweeping  over  a  high  hill,  from  which  a 
wide  region  of  variegated  country  was  visible ;  now  whirling 
up  to  a  village  hotel,  or  riding  for  miles  by  the  side  of  a  brook, 
leaping  over  the  rocks.  We  returned  to  Shirley  village  in 
the  last  days  of  August,  and  there  the  melancholy  intelligence 
awaited  us  that  Charlotte  was  dead !  So  are  joy  and  sadness 
mingled  in  our  cup  of  existence.  Yet  we  could  thank  God, 


94  MEMOIR. 

that  we  had  been  permitted  to  enjoy  those  weeks  of  com 
munion  with  him  through  the  loveliest  sights  and  sounds  of 
nature,  before  we  heard  that  she  had  gone  away ;  and  her 
memory  was  always  associated  with  those  scenes,  to  which  it 
was  not  an  inappropriate  conclusion.  We  parted  from  each 
other,  with  more  elevated  purposes  and  chastened  spirits,  as 
men  go  out  from  hearing  a  concert  of  rich  harmonies,  closed 
by  a  plaintive  melody  ;  looking  their  adieus,  lest  they  should 
break  the  spell  by  spoken  words. 

It  was  Sarah's  intention  to  write  an  extended  notice  of  the 
life  of  her  friend  for  the  '•  Rose  of  Sharon,"  and  the  materials 
were  once  collected  for  it.  I  know  not  why  the  work  was 
never  completed.  I  regret,  with  many  others,  that  a  volume 
of  her  best  productions  has  not  yet  enriched  our  denomi 
national  literature,  and  hope  we  shall  yet  see  it,  accompanied 
with  a  tribute  to  her  memory,  from  some  one  of  those  who 
can  best  do  it.  For  she  was  a  true  woman,  full  of  a  woman's 
gentle  and  deep  affection.  The  quality  most  apparent  in 
her  character  was  sincerity.  There  was  no  cant  in  her, 
and  she  possessed  a  happy  humor,  which  was  not  seldom  em 
ployed  in  exposing  it  in  others.  Though  unusually  gay  and 
social  in  her  manners,  she  was  yet  subject  to  frequent  periods 
of  the  deepest  depression.  Her  life  was  not  free  from  trials, 
but  she  knew  how  to  endure  them  without  complaint.  She 
was  in  truth  a  woman  whom  to  see  once  was  to  love  and  re 
member.  Her  intellect  was  singularly  fresh  and  productive. 
A  brightness,  like  the  sun  shining  through  the  young  leaves 
of  beech-trees  in  spring,  was  over  everything  that  came 
from  her  pen.  An  unconscious  grace  in  her  poems,  and  a 
happy  ease  in  her  prose,  declared  the  true  artist.  Had  she 
lived,  it  is  sure  she  would  have  become  a  distinguished  or 
nament  in  the  company  of  our  female  writers.  Her  love 
for  Sarah  was  the  deepest  feeling  of  her  heart.  She  felt 
that  to  her  she  owed  sympathy,  encouragement,  and  strength. 
Neither  was  she  destitute  of  other  friends,  but  during  the 
latter  portions  of  her  life  was  surrounded  by  those  who  under 
stood  her,  and  assisted  her  greatly  in  spiritual  things.  She 
died  young,  but  few  of  us  can  lament  that  a  soul  so  rare,  con- 


MEMOIR.  95 

fined  in  a  body  so  delicate  and  sensitive  as  hers,  should  be 
set  at  liberty,  in  the  earliest  period  of  its  eternal  develop 
ment.  A  little  poem  in  this  collection  expresses  the  feelings 
of  her  friend.  1  also  copy  the  touching  letter  written  to  her 
husband  :  — 

"  I  thank  you  most  sincerely  for  your  kind  and  excellent  letter. 
It  was  a  great  relief  to  me  to  hear  from  you,  after  the  experience  of 
so  severe  an  affliction.  I  had  for  many  days  been  intending  to  write 
to  you,  to  express  my  sympathy  for  your  loss,  and  should  have  done 
so  soon,  even  had  I  not  received  your  letter. 

"  Our  dear  Charlotte  is  indeed  gone,  but  gone,  we  sincerely  trust, 
to  a  better  and  happier  world  than  ours.  Charlotte  lies  not  in  the 
dusty  graveyard  of  the  city,  but  lives  in  the  sweet  fields  of  that  Canaan 
beyond  death,  which  is  the  '  promised  land'  of  us  all.  And  though 
it  is  pleasant  to  give  a  beautiful  shrine  to  her  loved  remains,  and  to 
stand  beside  it  with  the  tribute  of  regretful  tears,  yet  it  is  well  for  us 
to  think  of  the  tomb  as  the  depository  of  her  body  only,  and  to  re 
member  that  nothing  of  Charlotte,  of  her  heart,  her  soul,  her  mind, 
ever  descended  there.  She  has  no  consciousness  of  the  grave. 
When  her  eyes  closed  upon  the  faces  of  those  she  loved  here,  they 
opened  upon  the  faces  of  God  and  his  angels. 

"  Your  home  must  indeed  be  desolate,  and  it  is  for  you  and  her 
mother,  not  for  Charlotte,  that  I  mourn.  It  will  be  a  long  while 
before  you  can  cease  to  miss  her  sweet  face,  and  her  lively  conversa 
tion.  Such  vacancies  in  the  heart  can  only  be  supplied  by  time,  and 
perhaps  never  fully  supplied  in  this  life.  But  we  have  the  precious 
privilege  of  looking  forward  to  a  life,  not  far  distant,  in  which  we  shall 
clasp  our  beloved  ones  to  our  hearts  again,  with  the  full  assurance 
that  we  shall  never  be  separated  more  —  that  our  union  will  hence 
forth  be  eternal.  What  could  we  do  in  times  of  such  sorrow,  if  it 
were  not  for  this  faith?  Surely  there  is  nothing  in  life  we  ought  so 
much  to  cherish  and  cultivate  as  a  deep,  true,  living  and  ever  active 
faith  in  the  glorious  immortality  to  which  we  are  all  destined.  We 
ought  always  to  accustom  ourselves  to  think  of  the  dead  as  dead  only 
in  body,  —  or  rather  as  spirits  which  have  cast  off  a  worn-out  gar 
ment,  and  ascended  with  purified  affections  to  the  home  of  Eternal 
Love. 

"  I  have  lost  a  very  dear  friend  in  Charlotte.  I  shall  miss  her 
greatly,  both  as  a  correspondent  and  as  one  with  whom  I  have  been 
accustomed  to  pass  many  gay  and  pleasant  hours.  She  will  be  a 
great  loss  to  our  denomination,  too,  for  her  talents  were  of  a  superior 
order,  and  were  constantly  developing  themselves  with  time.  My 


96  MEMOIR. 

'  Rose '  will  miss  her  sweet  melodies  sadly.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
examine  her  manuscripts,  and  hope  I  may  find  some  relics  there  that 
will  be  new  and  acceptable  to  the  public.  I  intend  writing  some  little 
memorial  of  her  for  the  next  volume  of  the  '  Rose,'  something  that 
will  preserve  her  name  beyond  the  transient  notice  of  newspapers  and 
magazines. 

"  You  did  not  speak  of  Charlotte's  mother.  I  suppose  she  will 
continue  to  live  with  you  for  the  present.  Her  loss  is  truly  irrepara 
ble.  For  an  aged  and  widowed  mother  to  lose  an  only  and  grown-up 
daughter,  seems  the  greatest  of  earthly  calamities.  I  do,  from  my 
deepest  soul,  pity  the  griefs  of  one  so  deeply  bereaved.  Do  please 
tell  her  from  me,  how  much  I  feel  for  her.  I  shall  be  in  Boston  at 
the  time  of  the  Convention,  and  shall  certainly  call  at  your  house.  I 
had  anticipated  great  pleasure  in  sharing  with  dear  '  Lottie '  the  joy 
ful  greetings  of  that  occasion.  She  will  not  be  forgotten  by  her 
numerous  friends  who  will  meet  together  at  that  time.  I  shall  be 
happy  to  hear  from  you  at  any  time  when  you  feel  like  writing,  and 
you  need  not  be  at  all  timid  about  uttering  all  your  feelings  to  me. 
I  know  how  you  loved  Charlotte,  and  how  painfully  you  must  deplore 
her  loss.  And  your  little  child,  too,  —  it  was  indeed  hard  to  lose 
both  at  once.  May  God  bless  and  comfort  you,  and  all  others  who 
share  your  grief.  I  am  happy  to  hear  you  are  to  give  her  dust  a 
resting-place  at  Mount  Auburn.  Two  of  my  clearest  friends  will 
then  lie  side  by  side  in  one  tomb.  How  similar  their  fate  !  " 

We  separated  about  the  first  of  September  ;  she  remaining 
at  home,  and  I  going  to  the  city  to  continue  my  theological 
studies.  A  few  weeks  brought  us  together  again  in  Boston, 
where  she  had  come  to  attend  the  United  States  Convention 
of  Universalists.  There  she  met  many  of  her  old  friends,  and 
enjoyed  much  in  their  society,  and  the  various  religious  ser 
vices  of  the  occasion.  Nearly  all  her  family  also  accompanied 
her.  On  the  last  day  of  the  Convention  her  father  was  attacked 
with  sudden  illness,  and  with  great  difficulty  removed  to  his 
home  in  Shirley  village.  Sarah  immediately  followed,  and 
with  unwearied  devotion  attended  him  during  his  sickness. 
His  disease,  a  fever,  rapidly  increased  in  violence,  and  soon 
placed  him  beyond  hope  of  recovery.  On  the  Sabbath  even 
ing  preceding  his  death, -she  wrote  me  a  letter,  from  which  I 
make  the  following  extract.  It  will  express,  better  than  any 
words  of  mine,  that  beautiful  repose  of  soul  which  nothing 
could  now  disturb  :  — 


MEMOIR.  97 

"  My  heart  prays  for  you  continually.  I  am  happy  in  loving  you, 
and  happy  in  loving  God.  Life  seems  beautiful  and  peaceful  to  me. 
If  there  be  any  storm  or  tumult  in  the  world,  it  is  without,  and  not 
within.  God's  presence  is  too  holy  for  any  discord  to  intrude,  and 
this  day,  at  least,  I  feel  that  I  am  truly  with  him.  Enfolded  as  we 
are  in  the  love  of  God,  and  the  love  of  each  other,  what  cloud  can 
ever  darken  our  golden  atmosphere,  or  throw  a  single  abiding  shadow 
into  our  hearts  ?  *****  I  have  been  reading  to-day  Channing's 
divine  sermon  upon  Christian  worship.  I  was  directed  to  this  par 
ticular  discourse,  by  an  index  of  your  own,  which  I  found  so  kindly 
left  in  the  volume.  I  read  it  with  the  deepest  delight,  and  I  trust 
also  with  the  greatest  profit.  It  expresses  fully  and  clearly  that  kind 
of  devotion  which  I  told  you  I  wished  so  much  to  cultivate,  and  which 
I  so  feebly  and  vainly  endeavored  to  describe  to  you ;  that  devotion 
which  consists  in  an  ever-constant,  ever-conscious  communion  with 
the  Father  of  spirits ;  which  studies  his  perfections  in  the  design  of 
transfusing  them  to  the  spirit  wherein  he  dwells ;  which  sees  God 
everywhere,  and  most  of  all  in  man,  his  sullied  image.  Pray  for 
me,  that  I  may  cultivate  this  holy  devotion,  for  in  the  exercise  of  it 
lies  all  the  purity  and  felicity  of  heaven.  My  prayers  go  up  for  you 
to-night,  that  God  will  send  you  health,  and  strength,  and  heavenly 
peace ;  that  he  will  anoint  you  with  power  and  grace  to  turn  the 
hearts  of  men  to  love  and  practise  goodness.  Oh,  may  you  be  a 
faithful  and  useful  minister  of  eternal  truth  !  —  so  shall  my  heart  be 
satisfied  in  all  its  longings,  and  you  be  blessed  with  the  richest  and 
holiest  blessings  that  lie  in  the  gift  of  God." 

The  sufferings  of  her  beloved  parent  were  at  length  termi 
nated.  He  passed  away,  leaving  a  household  whose  Christian 
sadness  was  but  a  mellowed  shade  of  Christian  joy.  For 
God's  spirit  came  in  there  when  the  soul  of  the  husband  and 
father  departed,  and  they  felt  that  there  was  nothing  but  tem 
porary  absence  to  deplore.  In  reply  to  letters  of  sympathy 
from  her  friends,  Sarah  wrote  the  following,  which  truly  re 
flect  the  spirit  of  all  the  inmates  of  the  bereaved  home  :  — 

"  Your  kind  letter  was  very  welcomely  received.  Thank  you  for 
this  attention  in  our  season  of  bereavement.  Our  dear  father  is  in 
deed  gone  —  we  can  never  again  look  upon  his  earthly  countenance. 
But  we  think  of  the  immortality  and  the  incorruption  which  are  now 
his,  and  we  are  truly  comforted.  Poor  mother  is,  of  course,  deeply 
afflicted.  A  happy  union  of  thirty- five  years  has  been  suddenly  inter- 
9 


98  MEMOIR. 

rupted.  How  vacant  must  the  world  seem  to  her,  —  no,  not  vacant, 
for  she  has  many  dear  children  and  kind  friends,  but  how  sadly  she 
must  miss  one  voice,  and  the  kindly  beaming  of  one  face  that  ever 
gazed  into  hers  with  the  most  devoted  love  !  I  wept  for  father  while 
he  suffered,  but  I  weep  only  for  mother  now.  But  she  is  calm  and 
cheerful.  She  is  remarkable  for  the  firmness  and  placidity  of  her 
mind,  and  for  the  strength  of  her  faith,  which  never  falters.  She 
has  the  best  of  consolations  in  her  religion,  and  in  the  love  of  her 
children. 

"  Father's  death  seems  sudden  to  us,  though  he  was  sick  nearly 
three  weeks.  We  did  not  give  up  hopes  of  his  recovery  until  about 
three  days  before  his  death.  After  the  fever  got  hold  of  his  lungs, 
we  saw  but  too  plainly  he  could  not  endure.  His  mind  was  quite 
wandering  and  confused  during  the  whole  of  his  illness.  He  knew 
every  one,  but  could  not  hold  a  rational  conversation.  His  mind  was 
a  good  deal  interested  in  some  imaginary  philanthropic  scheme,  of 
which  he  was  the  leader,  and  by  which  he  sought  to  unite  all  men  in 
harmony.  AAs  the  world  was  now.'  he  said,  '  some  were  too  rich, 
and  some  were  miserably  poor ;  but  if  men  would  only  join  his  society, 
they  would  all  be  well  enough  off,  —  everybody  would  be  free  to 
cherish  his  own  opinions,  and  there  would  be  nothing  but  harmony.' 
A  night  or  two  before  he  died,  while  my  sister  was  watching  with 
him,  as  it  was  very  dark  without,  a  little  bird  came  fluttering  up  to 
the  window,  and  beat  up  against  the  glass,  chirruping  in  a  strange 
manner,  unlike  any  bird  she  ever  heard.  One  cannot  help  feeling, 
however  free  from  superstition  one  may  be,  that  such  little  messengers 
come  from  the  spirit-land,  to  beckon  the  dying  soul  away  to  bliss. 
Father's  corpse  wore  the  most  serene  and  benignant  expression  I  ever 
eaw.  It  made  me  happy  to  gaze  on  it,  after  watching  his  countenance 
through  so  many  days  and  nights  of  extreme  suffering.  Oh,  there  is 
something  touchingly  beautiful  in  the  death  of  the  good !  There  are 
times  when  father's  death  fills  me  with  the  most  solemn  and  intense 
happiness,  for  I  seem  really  to  see  him  in  that  blissful  world  where,  I 
doubt  not,  his  ransomed  spirit  now  abides.  The  time  may  come,  — 
doubtless  it  will,  —  when  death  will  touch  me  more  sorely  than  it 
ever  yet  has  done,  but  I  do  most  earnestly  believe  there  will  ever  be 
to  me  a  sweet  mingling  of  holy  joy  in  the  bitterest  cup  I  may  ever 
have  to  drink." 

"  I  did  not  give  up  the  hope  of  visiting  you,  until  within  an  hour 
before  leaving  Boston.  I  received  a  letter  from  home  at  that  time, 
from  which  I  gathered  but  too  true  a  presentiment  of  the  trial  that 
awaited  me.  The  trial  is  past  now,  —  I  believe  we  are  all  sincerely 
reconciled  to  father's  death ;  and  if  you  were  to  come  among  us,  you 


MEMOIR.  99 

would  find  us  all  as  cheerful  and  happy  as  ever.  Mother,  of  course, 
feels  his  loss  much  more  than  his  children  can  ;  but  I  know  she  would 
not  call  him  back,  had  she  power.  The  infirmities  of  age  were 
already  coming  upon  him,  and  had  he  lived  longer,  he  would  have 
had  many  days  of  toil  and  pain.  But  he  died  in  almost  the  first  sick 
ness  of  his  life,  at  a  ripe  age,  and  when  all  our  memories  of  him  were 
full  of  pleasure.  Probably  no  man  in  our  village  was  so  universally 
liked,  or  will  be  so  much  missed  by  his  neighbors;  for  his  heart  was 
as  kind  and  artless  as  his  face  was  cheerful  ;  and  no  one  could  ever 
say  he  had  done  him  wrong." 

"  I  owe  you  many  thanks  for  your  very  kind  and  sympathizing  let 
ter.  We  have,  indeed,  met  with  a  great  loss —  such  as  can  come  to 
us  but  once  in  life  —  for  we  have  but  one  father.  But  in  view  of  the 
increasing  infirmities  of  age,  and  of  the  laborious  lot  which  he  took 
upon  himself  in  his  later  years,  we  cannot  but  feel  that  he  was  called 
away  in  a  fitting  time,  and  that  it  is  not  only  far  better  for  him,  but 
even  happier  for  us,  than  to  have  witnessed  years  of  suffering,  which 
we  could  not  alleviate.  Our  dear  father  passed  through  a  life  of  health 
and  happiness.  When  these  began  to  fail,  why  should  we  mourn 
that  his  Father  called  him  home?  We  all,  even  mother,  feel  sin 
cerely  reconciled  to  his  departure,  though  it  was  indeed  a  severe  trial 
to  watch  him  through  the  pains  and  difficult  breathings  of  dissolution. 
His  mind  was  not  very  regular  during  his  sickness,  but  he  did  not 
apparently  suffer  much  in  his  delirium.  He  never  spoke  of  dying; 
but  that  he  felt  that  death  was  near,  was  apparent  by  the  affectionate 
manner  in  which  he  pressed  our  hands  and  clung  to  our  arms  when 
ever  we  stood  bending  over  him.  He  was  a  good  man,  and  in  that 
there  is  something  divinely  consoling." 

All  that  she  has  here  said  of  her  father's  character  is  true. 
He  was  a  man  of  strong  judgment,  and  great  decision  of  pur 
pose  ;  yet  I  think  these  became  apparent  only  upon  an  intimate 
acquaintance  with  him  ;  for  he  had  a  heart  as  deep  as  the 
ocean,  which  overflowed  in  every  act  and  word  of  his  life. 
This,  united  with  a  great  fund  of  humor,  and  an  almost  child 
like  simplicity  of  manner,  made  him  the  most  engaging  of 
companions,  especially  to  the  young.  His  face  suggested 
everything  amusing,  social,  and  benevolent.  His  love  for  his 
children,  and  pride  in  their  superiority,  were  beautiful  to  be 
hold.  He  was  a  man  so  full  of  true  vitality,  that  we  could 
never  associate  death  with  him,  but  must  believe  that  he  was 


100  MEMOIR. 

only  lifted  to  a  higher  sphere  for  the  exercise  of  these  qualities 
which  so  endeared  him  to  us  upon  earth. 

The  remainder  of  the  autumn  and  winter  was  spent  by 
Sarah  quietly  at  home.  I  returned  in  November  to  Warwick, 
and  remained  several  months,  pursuing  my  usual  course  of 
study.  This  year  had  been  to  her  rich  in  spiritual  experiences. 
The  constant  inspiration  of  our  love,  daily  growing  deeper 
and  more  religious,  from  the  circumstances  of  our  lot ;  the 
departure  of  so  many  who  were  nearest  her  heart ;  her  exer 
tions  to  administer  consolation  to  others ;  and  her  constant 
and  disinterested  labor  for  the  happiness  of  all  around  her, 
were  silently  preparing  her  for  higher  duties  on  earth,  and 
heavenly  occupations  not  far  in  the  distance.  Yet,  with  the 
multitude  of  calls  upon  her  time  and  sympathies,  this  was 
one  of  the  most  fruitful  years  in  her  intellectual  history,  not, 
perhaps,  if  measured  by  the  quantity  she  wrote,  but  certainly 
so,  if  estimated  by  its  results  in  the  discipline  of  her  mind, 
and  the  attainment  of  more  correct  views  of  literary  composi 
tion.  The  study  of  French  was  constantly  pursued,  and  she 
had  already  become  an  accomplished  scholar.  The  various 
works  of  Madam  De  Stael,  and  several  of  the  modern  French 
poets,  were  read.  She  was  also  strongly  interested  in  Ger 
man,  which  she  read  with  the  assistance  of  her  brother.  All 
the  poems,  and  several  of  the  plays  of  Goethe  were  thus  gone 
over,  also  several  of  the  charming  aesthetic  prose  articles  of 
Schiller.  From  both  of  these  writers  she  made  frequent 
translations.  She  also  read  philosophy  in  the  works  of  Paley, 
Stewart,  and  Cousin,  with  the  same  enthusiasm  which  she 
brought  to  the  reading  of  the  poets.  In  English  literature 
she  read  the  poetical  works  of  Southey,  Tennyson,  and  Milton, 
and  studied  Shakspeare  every  day.  These  pursuits,  with 
historical  and  fictitious  reading,  form  no  mean  catalogue  of 
labors  for  a  retired,  domestic  woman  to  accomplish.  She  also 
wrote  a  series  of  tales  for  the  Repository,  and  her  usual  num 
ber  of  contributions  to  the  Rose.  In  tales  like  the  "  Spring 
of  the  Valley,"  and  "  Marion,"  and  poems  like  the  "  Retro 
spect,"  "  Memory's  Picture-Gallery,"  and  "  The  Beggar's 
Death-Scene,"  we  trace  the  result  of  her  studies,  and  the  pro- 


MEMOIR. 


gress  of  that  artistic  power  which  appeared  in  almost  every 
thing  she  afterwards  wrote.  "  The  Ferry "  is  a  poem  sug 
gested  by  her  German  studies,  and  the  first  of  a  series  in 
which  we  can  trace  the  influence  of  the  works  of  the  great 
poets  of  this  language  upon  her  susceptible  mind. 

The  months  of  January  and  February,  1846,  she  spent  at 
home,  principally  engaged  in  domestic  occupations.  I  had 
now  returned  to  the  city,  and  was  looking  forward  to  a  situa 
tion  in  the  ministry.  Her  time  was  much  engrossed  by 
friends,  several  of  whom  were  near  or  with  her;  and  some  of 
them  will  long  remember  those  winter  evenings,  when  she 
gave  them  new  views  of  life,  and  exerted  upon  them  a  gentle 
shaping  influence,  which  the  contact  of  the  world  can  never 
overcome.  Her  brother  was  also  at  home,  his  health  having 
suffered  in  consequence  of  too  severe  application  to  study. 
Of  course  little  time  was  found  for  correspondence.  I  extract 
the  following  from  one  of  the  few  letters  she  wrote  :  — 

"  I  should  think  you  could  have  no  more  pleasant  or  profitable 
study,  for  the  present,  than  English  literature.  Why  not  make  this 
the  principal  object  of  attainment  for  a  number  of  years'?  What  I 
mean  is,  that  you  should  read  some  one  poet  carefully,  with  regard 
to  his  style,  his  scope,  and  his  ultimate  success  in  what  he  proposes 
to  himself.  To  do  this,  you  might  be  obliged  to  peruse  and  reperuse 
a  work ;  but  if  it  were  a  good  work,  the  labor  would  not  be  in  vain. 
What  a  study,  for  instance,  is  Shakspeare  !  Now  what. I  would  pro 
pose  is,  that  you  should  read  one  of  his  plays  at  a  time,  with  a  careful 
study  of  all  the  criticism  you  can  procure,  and  also  write  such  criti 
cisms  of  your  own,  as  the  varied  characters  and  their  actions  and 
language  would  naturally  suggest.  In  this  manner  you  could  make 
light  literature  as  much  of  a  mental  discipline  as  anything  more  ab 
struse  or  difficult ;  and  I  believe  you  have  a  mind  and  taste  admirably 
qualified  for  such  a  task.  In  my  view,  there  is  no  accomplishment 
more  enviable  than  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  elegant  English 
literature ;  and,  though  all  persons  could  not  pursue  such  a  plan  suc 
cessfully,  I  know  of  few  so  naturally  qualified  for  it  as  yourself." 

But  another  trial  was  approaching  the  house,  lately  so  pain 
fully  afflicted.    Her  sister  Miranda,  married  two  years  before, 
died,  after  a  short  illness,  on  the  sixteenth  of  February,  leav 
ing  her  child,  a  little  boy  a  year  old,  to  the  care  of  the  family. 
9* 


102  MEMOIR. 

She  was  the  eldest  of  three  daughters,  and  a  woman  greatly 
beloved  by  all  who  knew  her;  in  character  resembling  the 
father  more  than  any  of  his  remaining  children.  It  is  un 
necessary  to  repeat  what  we  have  before  said,  of  the  manner 
in  which  this  new  affliction  was  received.  A  short  passage 
from  a  letter  written  a  few  days  subsequent  to  the  event,  will 
best  describe  the  Christian  resignation  of  the  bereaved  house 
hold  :  — 

"  A  great  change  has  entered  our  domestic  circle  within  the  last 
four  months.  A  father  gone,  and  into  his  place  has  come  a  mother 
less  infant,  the  child  of  my  eldest  sister,  whose  dust  was  only  two 
days  since  deposited  in  our  rapidly-filling  tomb.  You  have  seen  her, 
I  believe  ;  you  can  imagine  how  severe  an  affliction  it  is  to  us  all,  to 
feel  that  we  shall  see  her  no  more  on  earth.  But  we  are  not  un 
reconciled.  Few  tears  are  shed  at  our  fireside,  we  all  feel  that  it 
would  be  selfish  to  weep,  for  blest  as  our  dear  Miranda  was  in  her 
new  relations,  she  is  infinitely  more  blessed  now." 

The  addition  of  the  care  of  a  child  to  the  other  domestic 
duties,  of  course,  interrupted  her  literary  pursuits  during  the 
spring  and  summer.  She  was  also  engaged  in  efforts  to  assist 
in  the  building  of  a  new  church  in  the  village,  and  greatly 
aided  the  project  by  her  efficient  labor.  The  preparation  for 
the  "  Rose  "  was,  however,  not  neglected.  She  determined 
that  her  annual  should  yearly  increase  in  value,  and  this  time 
her  success  was  far  beyond  that  of  any  former  year.  The 
volume  for  1847  is,  in  all  respects,  the  most  valuable  of  the 
series,  containing  several  articles  of  the  highest  literary  merit. 
Several  of  her  best  poems,  written  amid  the  confusion  of  con 
stant  domestic  employments,  are  here.  "  Udollo  "  is  one  of 
her  happiest  inspirations,  and  shows  how  successfully  she 
could  adopt  the  mythical  style,  peculiar  to  some  of  the  Ger 
man  poets.  The  stormy  passage  of  a  human  soul  through  a 
course  of  sin,  its  fearful  condition,  when  left  at  the  end  of  life 
deserted  even  by  the  appetites  for  which  it  had  surrendered 
its  glory,  its  late  return  and  repentance,  and  the  calmness  of 
its  departure,  worn  and  wearied,  to  a  new  sphere  of  activity, 
are  here  not  so  much  allegorized  as  shadowed  forth  in  a  ballad 
glowing  with  true  poetic  fire.  Perhaps  her  power  in  veisifica- 


MEMOIR.  103 

tion,  and  the  choice  of  appropriate  imagery,  are  in  no  instance 
more  happily  displayed  than  in  this.  Among  others,  I  would 
also  refer  to  the  poems,  "  The  Lord  de  Beaumonaire,"  "  Leila 
Gray,"  "  The  Old  Mill,"  and  «  The  Church-Bell,"  as  among 
the  best  she  has  written.  She  wrote  but  one  tale  for  this 
number,  the  beautiful  story  of  "  Lydia  Vernon." 

She  was  employed  until  the  month  of  August,  as  we  have 
described,  and  in  editing  the  "  Rose."  She  also  compiled  a 
little  book,  called  the  "  Floral  Fortune-Teller,"  consisting  of 
a  gracefully  arranged  game  at  telling  fortunes  in  passages, 
selected  principally  from  Shakspeare.  The  preparation  for  this 
led  her  again  over  the  pages  of  the  great  English  poets.  We 
also  read  together  the  poetical  works  of  Keats,  of  which  she 
had  the  truest  appreciation.  This,  with  a  few  articles  written 
for  the  Repository,  includes  the  whole  of  her  literary  labor 
until  the  time  of  our  marriage.  Several  short  visits  to  the 
city,  the  home  duties,  and  her  constant  interest  in  the  comple 
tion  of  the  new  church,  occupied  her  attention  almost  to  the 
exclusion  of  other  objects.  I  find  but  one  letter  written  during 
this  period,  from  which  I  can  make  an  extract :  — 

"  I  wish  very  much  to  know  how  you  enjoy  life  in  Clinton,  after 
so  long  an  experience  of  the  city.  I  imagine  at  first  you  must  have 
felt  very  unhappy,  that  you  must  have  yearned  for  the  familiar  faces 
and  greetings  of  tried  friends,  and  have  missed  the  daily  excitements 
of  populous  life.  But  I  cannot  but  believe,  when  you  have  once  more 
become  accustomed  to  country  quiet,  and  village  society,  when  the 
voices  of  the  streams  and  the  songs  of  the  birds  have  become  dear  to 
you,  as  the  communings  of  friendship,  that  you  will  feel  your  spirit 
refreshed  and  invigorated  by  the  peaceful  calm,  and  that  your  health 
and  spirits  will  alike  improve  beneath  the  silent  influences  of  beautiful 
nature.  I  am  myself  so  much  of  a  country-girl,  that  I  cannot  con 
ceive  of  any  regular,  systematic  happiness,  apart  from  the  retirement 
and  the  silence  of  the  country.  More  than  half  my  misery  in  life 
arises  from  noise  and  discords.  My  sweetest  idea  of  heaven  is,  that 
everything  there  is  harmonious." 

Early  in  the  month  of  July  I  went  to  Gloucester,  Mass., 
and  entered  upon  my  ministry,  as  pastor  of  the  Independent 
Christian  Society,  in  that  town.  On  the  28th  of  July  we 
were  married,  and  proceeded  immediately  to  our  new  home. 


104  MEMOIR. 

No  situation  could  have  been  more  pleasing  to  us  than  the 
one  in  which  we  now  found  ourselves.  The  town  of  Glouces 
ter  possesses  many  attractions  for  the  lover  of  quiet  life, 
without  the  deadness  of  human  interest  which  often  renders 
a  residence  in  the  country  tedious.  It  is  situated  upon  the 
slope  of  a  hill,  declining  gradually  toward  the  south  to  the  water ; 
—  before  it  a  beautiful  harbor,  indented  with  coves,  throwing 
a  long  arm  inward,  and  relieved  by  islands  and  a  narrow  point 
of  land  running  far  out  into  the  ocean,  parallel  with  the  main 
shore,  beyond  which  lies  the  open  sea  ;  —  behind  it  a  range 
of  rocky  hills,  from  whose  summits  can  be  seen  a  wide  and 
varied  prospect ;  and  its  western  extremity  terminated  by  a 
broad  curving  beach.  Towards  the  north-west  several  roads 
run  away  into  a  fertile  agricultural  district,  through  forests 
that  would  not  disgrace  the  banks  of  the  Connecticut ;  and 
others  at  the  east,  lead  to  the  village  of  Rockport,  on  the  ex 
tremity  of  the  cape  ;  and,  towards  the  north,  wind  over  the  hills 
to  the  village  of  Annisquam.  Upon  this  cape  is  every  kind 
of  natural  scenery.  There  are  quiet  coves,  where  the  waves 
lose  their  force,  and  break  gently  upon  the  sand  ;  bold  promon 
tories,  stretching  into  the  ocean,  where  the  foam  and  spray  are 
always  flying ;  islands,  out  at  sea,  crowned  with  light-houses ; 
piles  of  rocks,  full  of  caverns,  through  which  the  water  gurgles 
and  roars,  like  a  great  living  creature  struggling  to  escape 
confinement;  fleets  of  small  vessels,  always  flitting  about  the 
horizon,  and  sometimes  crowding  the  harbor  in  hundreds ;  and 
beyond,  in  fine  days,  the  blue  southern  shore,  lifted  up  against 
the  sky,  like  a  faint  picture ;  the  road  "  round  the  cape,"  per 
haps  the  most  delightful  drive  in  New  England,  running  over 
hills,  by  the  side  of  little  meadows,  through  avenues  of  willow- 
trees  and  forests,  always  in  view  of  the  sea ;  quiet  ponds  of 
fresh  water,  hidden  among  the  woods ;  groves  of  pine-trees, 
where  the  wind  overhead,  and  the  sound  of  the  waves  upon 
the  distant  beach,  unite  in  perfect  harmony;  pastures  full  of 
flowers,  a»d  damp  thickets,  where  the  Magnolia  grows ;  and 
towards  the  country,  the  beautiful  hilly  district  of  "West 
Parish,"  gradually  ascending  to  "  Mount  Ann,"  from  whose 
summit  you  look  away  over  the  tops  of  a  hundred  forests,  to 


MEMOIR.  105 

the  blue  sea-line  glittering  upon  the  horizon,  the  monument 
of  Bunker  Hill,  the  highest  spire  of  the  village  church,  and 
the  bay  of  Ipswich  and  its  adjacent  shores.  Here,  within  the 
space  of  ten  miles,  is  collected  almost  everything  to  charm  the 
eye  of  the  poet,  or  attract  the  investigation  of  the  lover  of 
science.  Add  to  this  the  generous  and  proverbial  hospitality 
of  the  people ;  possessing  in  no  stinted  measure,  the  virtues 
peculiar  to  a  sea-faring  population;  the  ease  of  communica 
tion  with  the  city  ;  the  gay  appearance  of  the  place  in  the  sum 
mer  months,  when  it  is  thronged  with  fashionable  company ; 
and  its  perfect  country  quiet  during  the  remainder  of  the  year ; 
—  and  it  may  be  conceived  that  there  are  few  spots  where  we 
would  have  rather  desired  to  spend  our  married  days. 

Our  situation  was,  in  all  respects,  pleasant.  The  religious 
society  is  not  so  large  as  to  exhaust  me  with  labor ;  yet  suf 
ficiently  numerous,  and  composed  of  intelligent,  and,  what  is 
yet  more  grateful  to  a  minister,  kind  and  sincere  people.  The 
church  is  a  large  building,  in  the  architectural  style  of  the  last 
century,  situated  at  the  extremity  of  a  long  avenue  of  trees ; 
so  that  in  summer,  the  sound  of  the  wind  and  the  birds  among 
the  branches  comes  in  at  the  windows,  and  mingles  with  oxir 
worship.  The  house  in  which  we  boarded  is  a  fine  old  man 
sion,  a  yard  full  of  horse-chestnut  trees  before,  and  a  garden 
behind  it,  the  front  covered  with  ivy,  having  an  outlook  from 
the  upper  windows  over  the  town  and  harbor ;  and  occupied 
by  a  family  who  have  always  shown  us  as  much  kindness  as  if 
we  were  of  their  own  kindred.  Our  duties  were  not  too  ardu 
ous,  and  we  began  life  in  Gloucester  with  the  most  cheering 
hopes  of  a  long  course  of  peaceful  and  useful  existence. 

I  cannot  transfer  to  these  pages  the  beautiful  picture  of  that 
summer  by  the  sea-side.  We  lived  in  a  world  of  poetry  and 
sacred  beauty.  The  kindness  of  all  around  us  smoothed  every 
trial  incident  to  the  early  days  of  professional  life,  and  forgave 
all  neglect  of  duty.  We  had  many  friends  with  us,  and  some 
of  them  will  long  remember  the  evenings  when  we  sat  in  our 
room,  the  moon  streaming  in  through  the  green  branches  and 
vines  about  the  windows,  listening  to  Sarah,  as  she  read  to  us 
in  a  voice  that  no  one  who  has  heard  her  can  ever  forget. 


106  MEMOIR. 

Then,  there  were  pleasant  parties  upon  the  beach  and  the 
rocks,  rides  into  the  neighboring  towns,  daily  visits  about  the 
parish,  and  one  afternoon  excursion  to  an  old  church  in  the 
"West  Parish,"  where  we  held  a  religious  service  at  sunset, 
for  which  Sarah  wrote  one  of  her  best  hymns.  The  Sabbaths 
were  days  of  the  purest  enjoyment.  She  engaged  with  me 
in  the  labors  of  our  little  Sabbath  school,  and  in  every  way 
relieved  as  far  as  possible  my  feeble  strength.  In  August  our 
venerable  father  Jones,  for  many  years  the  pastor  of  our  soci 
ety,  died,  and  his  funeral  services  were  attended  at  the  church 
by  a  throng  of  people  of  all  religious  sects.  These  are  a  few 
of  the  incidents  that  stand  out  most  prominently  in  my  mind, 
in  the  recollections  of  this  summer.  But  little  time  was  ap 
propriated  to  literary  pursuits,  these  being  reserved  for  the 
more  quiet  months  of  autumn  and  winter. 

In  August  we  visited  Shirley  Village,  and  also  spent  sev 
eral  days  in  the  vicinity  of  Boston.  The  pretty  church  now 
completed  at  Shirley  was  dedicated  at  this  time.  Another 
excursion  was  made  in  November  to  Warwick.  Thence  we 
proceeded  home,  where  we  remained  through  the  year.  The 
following  months,  until  January,  were  principally  employed  in 
literary  and  professional  pursuits.  Sarah  resumed  her  German 
studies,  and  read  in  Schiller's  plays  and  ballads.  We  also 
read  the  poetical  Avorks  of  Shelley  together.  To  this  first  of 
modern  English  poets  she  was  immediately  attracted,  and 
during  the  remainder  of  her  life  his  books  and  those  of  Ten 
nyson  were  oftener  in  her  hands  than  those  of  any  other  writer 
in  the  language.  She  also  read  the  critical  works  of  Hazlitt 
and  Carlyle.  But  her  attention  was  chiefly  directed  to  the 
writings  of  R.  W.  Emerson.  There  she  found  the  highest 
spiritual  philosophy  clothed  by  a  radiant  poetical  imagination ; 
and  although  she  never  gave  a  full  intellectual  assent  to  the 
system  of  this  greatest  of  mystical  writers,  she  acknowledged 
that  to  him  she  was  indebted  for  much  of  the  intellectual  ac 
tivity  and  calm  faith  of  her  last  years. 

She  wrote  but  little  for  publication.  One  of  her  best  poems, 
however,  "  The  Pervading  God,"  belongs  to  this  date.  But 
the  greater  portion  of  her  time  was  employed  upon  a  work  she 


MEMOIR.  107 

had  been  contemplating  for  many  years.  It  was  to  contain, 
in  the  form  of  a  novel,  the  spiritual  autobiography  of  a  woman 
from  childhood  to  middle  age.  She  had  been  long  thinking 
of  it,  and  all  her  best  thoughts  were  reserved  for  its  pages. 
Several  times  had  she  begun  to  write,  but  always  became  dis 
satisfied  and  destroyed  what  she  had  written.  The  labor  of 
this  winter  was  no  more  successful  towards  its  completion. 
She  wrote  and  rewrote,  and  burned,  and  at  the  end  of  three 
months  had  only  a  few  sheets  of  fragments,  and  gave  up  in 
despair,  saying  she  must  live  many  years  more  before  she 
could  attempt  it.  From  a  perusal  of  the  pages  I  have,  I  regret 
that  she  had  not  continued  ;  —  for,  though  fragmentary,  they 
are  greatly  superior  to  anything  in  the  present  volume.  Had 
she  written  the  book,  it  would  have  been  the  history  of  her 
own  soul,  containing  all  those  rich  treasures  of  religious  expe 
rience  which  she  had  silently  garnered  up  there.  It  was  to  be 
the  great  literary  labor  of  her  life,  and  would  have  included 
all  she  ever  wrote,  and  more  than  any  of  us  can  say  of  her. 
Will  it  not  be  completed  now,  in  a  world  where  we  trust  noth 
ing  comes  between  a  lofty  purpose  and  its  execution  ?  She 
also  read  one  work  of  fiction,  which  produced  a  lasting  im 
pression  upon  her ;  "  Consuelo,"  by  George  Sand.  It  was  the 
only  work  of  this  great  novelist  she  ever  read,  and  she  re 
garded  it  as  the  highest  and  most  truly  religious  romance  of 
the  age. 

Among  other  social  pursuits  we  derived  great  pleasure  from 
a  "  Reading  Circle,"  composed  of  such  of  our  friends  as  were 
interested  in  literature.  This,  with  the  lectures  of  the  village 
Lyceum,  furnished  an  agreeable  variety  to  our  quiet  and  studi 
ous  life.  Much  of  our  time  was  also  spent  out  of  doors,  in 
the  pleasant  autumn  weather.  She  was  never  weary  of  wan 
dering  about  the  sea-shore,  and  would  walk  miles  in  a  storm, 
to  see  the  waves  beating  against  the  "  Bass  Rocks,"  or  tum 
bling  in  upon  "  Little  Good-Harbor  Beach."  Thus  passed 
away  this  beautiful  period  of  time.  She  was  as  happy  as  any 
one  is  permitted  to  be  in  our  earthly  lot.  She  had  gained  all 
she  hoped  for  in  life  ;  the  love  of  one  entirely  devoted  to  her  ; 
a  sphere  of  active  usefulness ;  leisure,  and  a  quiet  atmosphere 


108  MEMOIR. 

for  study  ;  and  a  residence  among  the  grandest  and  loveliest 
scenes  of  nature.  I  can  but  faintly  describe  this  period  of  five 
months.  Of  her  constant  gentleness  and  love,  her  devotion  to 
me  in  all  my  hours  of  weariness,  which  continued  ill  health 
made  frequent,  her  large  benevolence  and  earnest  longing  to 
make  known  her  good-will  to  all  about  her,  I  cannot  trust 
myself  to  speak.  Those  who  knew  her,  will  understand  that 
this  meagre  sketch  is  but  the  outline  of  a  portrait  to  which 
their  own  recollections  must  impart  grace  and  finished  beauty. 

Happiness  like  this  cannot  long  continue,  and  the  succeed 
ing  five  months  were  full  of  trial  and  labor.  Early  in  Janu 
ary,  1847, 1  was  attacked  by  illness,  which  confined  me  several 
weeks  to  my  chamber,  and  when  I  came  out  again,  it  was  in 
a  state  that  promised  little  for  my  health.  I  attempted,  how 
ever,  to  proceed  with  my  professional  duties,  though  unfit  for 
the  slightest  mental  exertion.  She  gave  her  time  wholly  to 
me,  and  books  and  pen  were  not  thought  of  for  several 
months.  As  soon  as  my  strength  would  permit,  we  left  town 
upon  an  excursion  to  Shirley  village.  There  she  was  pros 
trated  by  sudden  illness,  and  for  several  days  remained  in  a 
most  alarming  state.  In  three  weeks,  however,  she  was  able 
to  return  home.  Our  time  until  the  first  of  June,  was  em 
ployed  in  preparations  for  housekeeping.  We  entered  our 
own  house  on  the  first  week  in  April.  I  well  remember  the 
evening,  when  we  sat  down  together  by  a  window  in  our  study, 
and  the  first  robin  of  the  season  sang  to  us  from  a  tree  in  the 
garden.  Here,  for  several  weeks,  she  exerted  herself  by  every 
method  to  aid  in  the  improvement  of  rny  health,  reserving  no 
time  for  her  own  pursuits.  The  only  book  she  read  was 
"  Margaret,"  the  best  of  American  novels  ;  a  book  of  all  others 
to  be  read  in  the  spring,  to  one  longing  to  escape  from  weari 
ness  and  heated  rooms  to  health  and  the  open  country. 

All  her  exertions  were  not  able  to  recruit  my  strength,  and 
my  disease  assumed  an  alarming  form  of  nervous  prostration. 
Relief  from  care,  and  perfect  quiet,  were  essential  to  my  recov 
ery  ;  and  painful  as  separation  was,  she  had  the  fortitude  to 
urge  it.  She  compelled  me  to  leave  her,  and  go  to  the  interior 
of  the  State,  to  spend  the  summer.  In  the  last  week  in  May 


MEMOIR. 

we  left  our  beautiful  home,  and  having  spent  anniversary-week 
in  Boston,  —  a  week  of  greater  suffering  than  I  ever  before 
experienced,  —  went  to  Shirley  village.  How  great  the  con 
trast,  from  the  confusion  of  tongues  in  the  crowded  city,  to  the 
glory  of  June  weather  by  the  side  of  Bow-Brook !  I  remained 
a  week  with  her,  and  then  went  to  Warwick  and  thence  to 
Northampton,  to  remain  during  the  summer  in  the  hydropathic 
establishment  of  Dr.  E.  Denniston.  She  returned  to  Glouces 
ter,  where  we  had  left  her  brother  John,  who  had  come  down 
from  Cambridge  to  spend  the  season  with  her,  and  recruit  his 
health.  A  few  days  after  she  arrived  at  home,  she  writes  as 
follows  to  her  sister  :  — 

"  I  felt  lonely  when  I  first  came  home,  and  hardly  knew  what  to 
do  with  myself;  but  I  am  very  contented  now.  The  people  have 
been  very  friendly  to  call  on  me.  A  friend  sent  me  to-night  the 
most  beautiful  geranium  blossoms  I  ever  saw  —  three  varieties  —  of 
the  richest  vermilion,  carmine,  and  softest  purple  hues.  I  have  ar 
ranged  them  in  a  dish  of  green  mosses  with  wild  flowers,  and  they 
quite  dazzle  my  eyes  with  their  splendor.  To-day  has  been  one  of 
the  finest  I  ever  knew  —  such  a  delightful  breeze  from  the  sea,  tem 
pering  the  sun's  heat.  Gloucester  does  not  look  so  much  like  a  fairy 
land  as  Shirley,  but  it  is  very  pleasant  here  now.  I  miss  the  brooks 
and  meadows.  We  have  nothing  of  the  kind  here,  only  a  few  woods, 
rocky  hills,  some  damp  thickets,  where  the  wild  flowers  grow,  and 
the  interminable  sea.  My  chamber  is  very  pleasant,  the  window  at 
which  I  write,  overlooks  the  garden,  and  the  robins,  the  head  of  the 
harbor,  the  long  land-point,  that  stretches  into  the  sea  for  several 
miles,  and  beyond  a  glimpse  of  the  great  ocean,  with  here  and  there 
a  passing  sail.  It  is  not  a  good  place  to  write  though,  unless  I  drop 
the  curtain,  for  I  spend  half  my  time  gazing  at  the  different  points  of 
the  landscape." 

I  remained  at  Northampton  until  the  first  of  September,  my 
health  gradually  improving  from  the  favorable  influences  of 
country  quiet,  beautiful  scenery,  and  the  efficient  ministrations 
of  water.  During  this  time  Sarah  remained  at  Gloucester. 
She  had  much  to  occupy  her  attention,  and  never  were  the 
varied  resources  of  her  character  better  displayed  than  at  this 
period.  If  she  had  misgivings,  or  hours  of  despondency,  they 
were  concealed  from  every  one.  Her  letters  to  me  were  uni- 
10 


1 1U  MEMOIR. 

formly  cheerful,  even  gay,  and  filled  with  lively  descriptions, 
that  never  failed  to  cheat  my  mind  from  depressing  thoughts. 
She  presided  over  a  large  household ;  —  her  brother,  Rev.  T. 
S.  King,  and  three  other  friends  heing  with  her ; — and  the  de 
mands  of  society  upon  her  time  were  also  considerable.  Not 
withstanding  this,  she  resumed  her  literary  pursuits  with  usual 
vigor.  Much  of  her  leisure  was  given  to  the  study  of  German 
with  her  brother  and  another  friend.  She  also  wrote  a  series 
of  short  articles  for  the  Repository,  and  edited  the  "  Rose." 
Her  two  best  poems  appeared  in  this  volume  of  the  annual, 
1848,  "  Saint  Valentine's  Eve,"  and  "  Eda."  In  the  latter  she 
has  happily  adopted  the  scientific  theory  of  the  gradual  devel 
opment  of  creation  from  inanimate  forms  to  man,  a  theory  that 
always  had  many  poetical  attractions  for  her.  The  story  of 
the  "Travelling  Painter"  was  also  written,  with  several  trans 
lations  from  the  French  and  German  poets.  Her  reading  was 
confined  to  works  translated  from  the  German.  Among  these 
were  Goethe's  "  Wilhelm  Meister,"  "  Correspondence  with 
Schiller,"  and  "  Conversations  with  Eckerrnann." 

But  the  highest  spiritual  influence  she  enjoyed  this  summer 
was  the  intercourse  with  her  brother.  His  college  studies 
were  now  completed,  and  though  interrupted  in  them  by  ill 
health,  he  had  become  a  good  scholar,  and  profound  thinker. 
Upon  all  subjects  his  opinions  were  similar  to  hers,  and  a  like 
calmness  of  nature,  made  their  communion  mutually  elevating. 
They  studied  and  conversed  together,  and  made  plans  for  fu 
ture  usefulness.  He  intended  to  devote  himself  ultimately 
to  the  study  of  theology,  and  was  desirous  of  spending  the 
years  of  his  preparatory  course  in  the  universities  of  Germany. 
His  more  immediate  project  was,  however,  to  edit  a  high  re 
ligious  and  literary  Magazine,  in  connection  with  his  sister ; 
and  during  the  latter  portion  of  the  summer  his  attention  was 
directed  principally  to  the  arrangements  for  this.  He  had 
secured  the  aid  of  many  good  writers  in  both  departments, 
and  proposed  to  issue  the  specimen  number  on  the  first  of 
October.  Sarah  wrote  for  it  the  ballad  of  "  Nora,"  and  the 
best  of  her  tales,  "  Esther;"  which  afterwards  appeared  in  the 
"  Rose"  of  1849.  These  employments,  varied  only  by  a  week 
at  Shirley  village,  consumed  the  months  of  summer. 


MEMOIR.  Ill 

I  returned  home  early  in  September,  and  found  our  brother 
sick  with  a  fever.  Most  of  the  family  at  Shirley  village  were 
also  sick ;  scarcely  one  being  well  enough  to  assist  the  others. 
The  illness  of  John  did  not  at  first  appear  alarming,  but  he 
gradually  sunk  under  it,  until  we  felt  his  life  to  be  in  danger. 
On  the  25th  of  September  our  little  "  Carrie  "  was  born ;  but 
joy  and  sadness  came  to  us  united;  for  our  brother  now  rap 
idly  declined,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  first  of  October  he 
passed  away.  I  have  no  words  to  describe  the  strength  and 
faith  of  my  beloved  companion  in  this  hour  of  bodily  weakness 
and  spiritual  affliction.  Though  from  her  bed  she  could  hear 
the  voice  of  her  brother  in  the  moments  of  his  delirium ; 
though  all  about  her  were  overwhelmed  by  the  suddenness  of 
this  dispensation,  yet  she  never,  for  a  moment,  gave  way  to 
the  expression  of  grief.  There  was  no  stoicism  in  her  sub 
mission  ;  she  shed  no  tears,  because  she  had  none  to  weep. 
Her  soul  was  in  a  higher  world  than  ours;  in  the  presence  of 
realities,  from  which  she  could  look  down  upon  earthly  trials 
with  the  composure  of  an  angelic  nature.  From  her  bed  she 
spoke  comforting  and  cheerful  words  to  us  all,  quieted  the 
fears  and  grief  of  her  servants,  wrote  letters  of  consolation  to 
her  friends,  and  watched  her  little,  one  with  all  a  mother's 
solicitude  for  her  first-born.  In  the  space  of  two  weeks  from 
John's  death  she  had  written  si*  letters  to  her  friends.  I  will 
copy  these  almost  entire.  The  first,  directed  to  her  sister 
Mary,  is  dated  5  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  October  1st,  before 
her  brother  had  ceased  to  breathe  :  — 

"  You  must  make  your  soul  as  strong  as  possible  to  receive  the 
tidings  I  am  compelled  to  send  you.  You  are  not  unprepared,  I  sup 
pose,  to  hear  the  worst  of  our  dear  brother,  —  the  worst,  so  far  as 
our  earthly  hopes  are  concerned  —  the  best  for  him.  He  yet  breathes, 
but  it  can  be  but  for  a  few  hours  longer  at  most.  The  doctor  told  us 
last  night  that  he  never  knew  any  one  with  such  a  pulse  recover. 
He  called  in  advice,  and  has  been  with  him  all  night,  administering 
everything  that  skill  could  dictate,  but  in  vain.  He  lies  perfectly 
quiet  and  unconscious,  and  will  probably  so  depart.  I  hope,  my  dear 
Mary,  we  are  all  well  enough  instructed  in  Christian  faith,  not  to 
repine  at  this  severe  stroke.  Never  was  a  soul  better  prepared  than 
his  for  transition  into  the  immortal  state.  For  a  year  past  that  has 


112  MEMOIR. 

been  his  favorite  theme.  Recollect  his  thoughts  and  feelings  ex 
pressed  at  the  close  of  the  article  on  '  Regeneration  and  Faith,'  and 
his  article  this  year  on  '  Immortality.'  It  is  a  great  treasure  to  us  to 
have  his  high  views  thus  left  to  comfort  us.  May  we  all  be  as  good 
and  strong-hearted  as  he.  He  has  said  nothing  of  dying  during  his 
sickness.  He  has  had  everything  done  for  him  that  we  could  do  to 
make  him  comfortable.  I  must  now  close.  In  a  few  days  I  will 
write  you  a  long  letter.  Give  my  best  love  to  mothew  She  is  per 
petually  in  my  thoughts,  and  all  the  tears  I  shed  are  for  her,  and  the 
rest  of  you  who  will  suffer.  ,How  many  more  of  our  circle  must 
leave,  we  know  not,  but  God  knows,  and  that  is  enough." 

The  next  was  written  the  fifth  of  the  month,  Sabbath  morn 
ing,  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  King  :  — 

"  Qn  this  beautiful  Sabbath  morning,  holy  and  serene,  when  all 
nature  is  composed,  and  all  heaven  is  at  peace,  shall  I  not  make  the 
hours  of  my  solitude  and  weakness  a  season  of  grateful  trust  in  God, 
and  of  consolation  and  good  cheer  to  myself  and  you?  Would  that 
you  were  here,  dear  Starr  ;  the  peace  and  courage  that  is  in  my  own 
soul  could  not  fail  to  impart  itself  to  you.  You  would  feel  as  I  do. 
that  our  loss  is  not  terrible,  but  that  our  gain  is  great.  Yes,  even  in 
his  dying  hour  itself,  I  felt  that  the  immortal  was  to  be  to  me  the 
nearer  companion,  the  trustier  guide,  the  more  perpetual  joy  and 
strength  than  ever  the  mortal  had  been,  or  could  be ;  that  I  was  losing 
nothing,  but  gaining  all,  by  that  great  transition  of  his  soul  from 
weakness  and  bondage  to  the  freedom  and  power  of  the  spiritual  and 
immortal  life.  Never  have  I  felt,  him  gone,  never  can  I.  Can  we, 
who  have  talked  together  so  much,  and  always  in  such  perfect  sym 
pathy  of  faith,  respecting  the  nature  of  the  future  life,  can  we  ever  be 
separated  by  any  failure  of  the  bodily  senses  to  recognize  each  other1? 
Could  John  have  known  that  he  was  to  die,  would  he  have  ever  told 
me  that  he  was  to  part  from  me  ?  Oh,  no  !  His  soul  was  as  strong 
in  the  assurance  of  its  perpetual  consciousness  and  growth,  as  in  that 
of  its  earthly  existence,  and  he  who  never  felt  separated  from  the 
friends  who  had  gone  before  him,  will  never  abandon  those  he  has 
left  behind.  It  is  this  which  makes  me  calm,  yes,  happy,  strong, 
and  full  of  solemn  courage  for  the  future  struggle  of  life.  It  seems 
no  mystery  to  me  that  he  died.  He  had  lived  but  a  few  years,  but 
they  were  years  of  such  rapid  growth  to  his  soul,  that  this  life  seemed 
to  have  nothing  more  left  for  him.  He  needed  no  more  of  its  trials 
to  instruct  him.  He  was  fully  taught  for  a  higher  work  than  any 
that  this  life  could  furnish  him.  He  had  planned  out  an  earthly  task. 
He  had  resolved  to  devote  himself  to  a  high  religious  philosophy,  and 


MEMOIR.  113 

to  teach  to  others  the  great  truths  that  were  daily  unfolding  them 
selves  in  his  soul.  You  know  with  what  zeal  and  strong  resolution 
he  set  about  his  plans  for  the '  Eclectic.'  Impracticable  as  his  project 
seemed  to  many,  I  believe  he  would  never  have  relinquished  it  till  it 
had  been  crowned  with  success.  It  was  the  very  mission  he  desired, 
and  felt  himself  ripening  for,  —  to  be  the  conductor  of  such  a  work 
as  his  imagination  had  pictured.  The  first  of  October  was  to  be  the 
date  of  the  first  number.  On  that  day  God  gave  him  another  work  ! 
Must  we  not  believe  it  to  be  something  infinitely  higher  and  nobler? 

"  We  are  all  sadly  bereft,  I  know,  looking  at  our  loss  in  a  com 
mon  light.  You,  and  Mayo,  and  I  were  all  looking  to  him  as  our 
intellectual  leader,  in  many  respects.  Not  superior  in  mental  gifts, 
to  any  one  of  us,  perhaps ;  he  was  yet  unquestionably  superior  in 
strength  of  character,  in  completeness  of  development,  in  those  reli 
able  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  to  which  one  could  refer  in  all  sea 
sons,  and  upon  all  questions  of  doubt  and  difficulty.  There  is  no 
earthly  being  upon  whose  judgment  I  ever  relied  so  implicitly,  with 
the  exception  of  my  husband,  no  being  with  whom  I  ever  held  such 
intimate  spiritual  communion.  Probably,  of  his  deeper  spiritual  nature, 
no  person  knew  so  much  as  myself.  Nor  did  ever  I  know  it  till 
during  the  last  summer,  while  we  were  alone  here  together  in  our 
studies,  and  forming  together  our  plans  for  future  usefulness.  But 
I  mourn  not  that  all  this  is  past  —  never  will,  never  can,  I  mourn  it 
God  knows  the  true  place  for  great  souls  to  labor,  and  happy  is  that 
noble  brother  of  ours,  that  he  has  been  found  worthy  to  be  employed 
in  a  celestial  sphere. 

"  More  I  cannot  write  now,  for  I  am  yet  weak  in  body,  though 
well  in  soul.  I  feel  that  I  have  given  you  no  adequate  idea  of  my 
feelings  ;  I  cannot  explain  them,  hardly  do  I  understand  them  !  They 
come  of  the  heart's  deep  faith,  which  can  never  be  told  in  logic. 
May  you  have  the  same  peace  that  Mayo  and  I  mutually  experience, 
and  doubtless  you  will  have  soon,  when  this  sorrow  is  less  new  to 
you,  and  your  own  high  views  have  had  time  to  subdue  the  anguish 
of  bereaved  affection.  John  had  no  dearer  friend  than  yourself.  Let 
his  memory  always  keep  us  three  united  in  the  closest  of  spiritual 
bonds." 

The  next  day  she  writes  again  to  her  sister  :  — 

"  I  hardly  know  how  I  have  had  strength  to  go  through  so  much 
trial  with  so  much  success.  The  two  greatest  trials  of  my  life  seemed 
mingled  together  in  one  cup,  as  it  were  ;  for  though  one  was  a  trial 
of  as  much  joy  as  affliction,  even  in  its  worst,  it  had  none  the  less 
power  to  weaken  and  unnerve  me.  But,  by  resolute  effort,  and  con- 
10* 


114  MEMOIR. 

slant  struggle  with  all  that  seemed  melancholy  and  distressing,  I 
have  attained  to  an  almost  perfect  triumph  over  my  grief.  Had  1 
been  surrounded  by  society  I  could  not  have  done  it ;  but  the  solitude 
of  my  own  chamber,  Mayo's  cheering  and  consoling  presence,  and 
the  care  of  my  little  Carrie,  have  all  conspired  to  sustain  and  uplift 
me.  It  seems,  too,  like  wronging  John  to  weep  for  him.  We  have 
talked  so  much  together,  this  summer,  of  the  immortal  life,  that  I 
should  feel  guilty  in  the  presence  of  his  spirit  were  I  not  to  rely  fully 
upon  all  he  has  taught  me,  and  believe  and  feel  the  constant  com 
munion  of  his  immortal  nature. 

"  We  had  a  private  funeral.  Only  a  few  of  John's  particular 
friends  were  present.  Mayo  gathered  some  beautiful  asters,  purple 
and  white,  and  requested  our  friends  to  arrange  them  with  other 
flowers  about  the  room  ;  to  place  a  wreath  around  my  portrait,  and 
another  upon  the  coffin,  wishing  by  these  symbols  to  express  our 
cheerful  views  of  death.  Some  of  those  everlastings  I  brought  from 
Shirley  were  mingled  with  white  asters,  in  a  wreath  for  the  coffin, 
and  fastened  upon  the  glass,  so  that  when  the  lid  was  shut  they  were 
enclosed." 

And,  on  the  16th,  to  a  female  friend :  — 

"  Ere  this  package  reaches  you,  you  will,  doubtless,  have  re 
ceived  the  melancholy  explanation  why  I  return  your  beautiful  poems, 
—  poems  that  would  a  few  days  earlier  have  received  so  grateful  a 
welcome. 

"  Our  magazine  is,  of  course,  resigned  —  since  the  soul  that  called 
it  into  being  has  departed  on  a  higher  mission.  My  brother  was 
taken  sick  about  four  weeks  since,  with  typhus  fever.  It  did  not 
seem  alarming,  however,  till  within  four  or  five  days  of  his  death. 
How  great,  in  an  earthly  sense,  his  loss  is  to  us,  none  but  friends  can 
know.  A  more  beautiful,  dignified,  perfectly  developed  moral  nature 
has  rarely  sanctified  this  earth.  What  his  intellectual  promise  was, 
you  can  partially  judge  from  the  two  articles  that  have  been  pub 
lished  in  the  last  volumes  of  the  '  Rose.'  But  I  must  not  linger  to 
speak  of  him.  He  is  called  to  his  heavenly  and  immortal  work,  and 
I  have  only  to  say,  as  I  do  reverently  and  earnestly  in  my  deepest 
heart,  —  God's  will  be  done." 

On  the  10th,  she  writes  to  my  sister :  — 

"  I  knew  how  grieved  you  would  be  to  hear  of  the  death  of  our 
beloved  brother ;  for  who  could  know  him  and  fail  to  love  him,  or  to 
be  sad  for  his  loss?  I  have  borne  the  sudden  and  severe  stroke  much 
better  than  I  should  have  deemed  it  possible,  had  it  been  previously 


MEMOIR,  115 

announced  to  me.  His  presence  seems  still  as  real  as  ever ;  and 
though  disappointed  in  the  hopes  I  had  formed  for  him  here,  I  know 
God  has  given  him  a  nobler  work  to  do  in  the  spiritual  and  immortal 
life. 

"  He  probably  had  no  intimations  of  his  approaching  departure. 
His  sickness  did  not  assume  a  very  alarming  form  till  he  became 
delirious,  and  after  that,  his  reason  was  at  no  time  clear  enough  to 
recognize  his  condition.  I  did  not  see  him  for  a  week  before  his 
deatH.  I  deeply  regretted  my  inability  to  wait  upon  his  last  moments, 
though  everything  was  done  for  him  that  kindness  and  skill  could  do. 
Mayo  gathered  some  flowers  to  adorn  the  room  at  the  funeral,  and  to 
make  a  wreath  for  the  coffin.  Four  vases  of  beautiful  white  dahlias, 
mingled  with  wild  asters,  stood  upon  the  mantelpiece ;  a  wreath  of 
box  and  snow-berries  surrounded  my  portrait,  and  another  of  pale 
asters,  —  everlastings  that  I  brought  from  home,  —  and  box,  was  laid 
upon  the  coffin  lid,  and  when  that  was  shut  it  was  placed  around  his 
head .  They  tell  me  that  so  beautiful  a  sight  was  never  seen  as  his 
face,  with  its  sweet  smile  and  speaking  look,  surrounded  by  this  halo 
of  flowers.  Every  one  said  they  never  saw  anything  so  beautiful  as 
the  expression  of  his  face  in  death.  I  could  not  see  him,  but  I  do  not 
regret  it,  for  I  have  now  only  the  memory  of  his  living  smile." 

Again,  on  the  14th,  to  a  female  friend  :  — 

"  I  know  not  how  to  introduce  a  subject  which  has  for  the  last  fort 
night  been  almost  the  only  one  in  my  thoughts,  —  may  I  not  say  in 
our  thoughts'?  For,  if  I  mistake  not,  a  spirit  has  departed,  which  to 
you  also  was  infinitely  dear.  So  sudden  and  so  strange  it  seems ! 
Weeks  of  anxiety  could  not  prepare  me  for  it ;  weeks  of  reflection 
cannot  make  it  seem  real.  And  yet,  I  can  feel  the  full  reality  of  his 
spiritual  presence.  I  am  not  one  hour  without  the  strength  derived 
from  it.  Not  one  prayer  for  help  from  him  is  unanswered.  I  see 
his  calm,  kind  smile  as  distinctly  as  ever.  And  the  weakness  that  I 
once  strove  to  conceal  from  his  high  strength,  I  now  confide  to  him. 
in  the  trust  that  it  will  be  overcome  by  such  communion.  People 
come  in  to  me  looking  so  sad,  I  cannot  think  for  some  moments  why 
it  is.  I  forget  entirely  that  I  have  any  grief,  till  they  remind  me  of 
it.  And  it  is  not  grief;  it  deserves  some  gentler  name— regret,  per 
haps,  that  the  society  of  one  so  good,  so  strong,  so  sincere,  should  be 
lost  to  me  ;  that  his.  gentle  and  cheerful  presence  can  never  again 
gladden  my  home ;  that  to  his  mother  he  can  no  more  be  a  living 
pride  and  consolation  ;  to  his  brothers  and  sisters  no  more  a  gay  and 
most  beloved  companion.  I  mourn  him  because  others  mourn,  rather 


lib  MEMOIR. 

than  because  that  to  me  he  is  lost.  One  thing  is  true,  —  had  we 
nee  led  him,  had  earth  needed  him,  he  would  have  been  left  to  us. 
Must  we  not  believe  that  his  work  and  his  peers  are  elsewhere,  and 
higher?" 

And,  on  the  29th,  to  the  Rev.  H.  Bacon :  — 

"  I  believe  that  circumstances  have  less  effect  upon  me  than  upon 
many  ;  for  certainly  I  see  those  around  me  more  afflicted  by  my  mis 
fortunes  than  I  am  myself.  Not  that  I  am  indifferent,  or  stoical,  but 
from  my  long  habit  of  leading  an  inward  rather  than  an  outward  life, 
I  am  not  sensible  so  much  to  outward  changes.  Though  my  brother 
is  dead;  (false  word!)  though  my  husband  is  absent;  though  my 
friends  at  home  are  sick  and  suffering,  still  I  find  myself  as  cheerful, 
as  calm,  and  as  contented  as  ever.  This  is  chiefly  owing,  perhaps, 
to  the  comparative  solitude  in  which  my  hours  are  spent.  Sitting 
here  in  my  little  quiet  chamber,  with  no  one  but  my  nurse  and  my 
baby  to  interrupt  my  meditations,  I  can  easily  compose  my  spirit  to  a 
state  of  elevated  repose.  Everything  looks  clear  and  harmonious. 
I  see  no  mysteries,  and  hear  no  discords.  When  in  the  presence  of 
suffering,  however,  I  find  it  difficult  to  maintain  this  composure.  I 
can  endure  my  own  pains  and  privations  with  much  more  fortitude 
than  I  can  witness  those  of  others.  *******  It  has 
been  very  hard  for  me  to  be  absent  from  our  family,  in  a  time  of  so 
much  tribulation.  Very  hard  it  was  for  them,  too,  especially  my 
mother,  to  be  deprived  of  the  satisfaction  of  ministering  to  dear  John's 
last  wants.  I,  too,  lay  on  my  bed  in  the  chamber  beneath,  and  heard 
him  call  in  his  delirium,  without  the  power  to  answer.  Oh,  that, 
dear  friend,  was  for  me  a  most  trying  night  and  day  !  My  life-expe 
rience  has  nothing  so  painful.  He  was  a  beautiful  and  noble  soul, 
most  affectionate  in  his  nature,  the  pride,  and  hope,  and  joy,  of  his 
friends.  Never  do  I  think  to  look  upon  his  like  again.  But  from 
me  he  has  not  gone  ;  oh,  no !  if  he  were,  my  heart  would  break." 

I  must  be  permitted,  notwithstanding  all  she  has  so  truly 
said,  to  linger  a  moment  about  the  memory  of  our  dear  brother. 
He  was,  in  all  respects,  a  noble  man.  To  intellectual  powers 
of  the  highest  order,  he  united  the  deepest  feeling,  and  the 
grace  of  a  fine  person  and  engaging  manners.  No  one  could 
have  seen  him  without  believing  that  he  was  made  to  do  a 
great  work.  He  possessed  that  calm  and  indomitable  en 
ergy  of  purpose,  which  is  the  surest  indication  of  greatness ; 
his  judgment  was  ripe  beyond  his  years,  far  seeing,  and 


MEMOIR.  117 

decisive ;  and  we  all  leaned  upon  him  instinctively,  as  if 
weakness  could  not  touch  a  being  so  self-sustained,  or  the 
troubles  of  others  disturb  a  love  so  disinterested.  In  reli 
gious  culture  he  was  truly  a  Christian  ;  spiritual  and  strong, 
devout  and  practical.  His  favorite  study  was  religious  phi 
losophy,  and  during  the  previous  summer  his  meditations  and 
conversations  were  directed  to  the  subject  of  the  immortality 
of  the  soul,  with  an  intensity  which  was  almost  prophetic  of 
his  approaching  translation.  The  results  of  these  thoughts 
were  expressed  in  an  article  written  for  the  "  Rose"  of  1848, 
entitled  "  Immortality,"  in  its  literary  execution  inferior  only 
to  its  high  spiritual  tone.  I  never  read  it  without  feeling 
it  to  be  the  appropriate  expression  of  one  to  whom  the 
solemn  mysteries  of  eternity  are  opening,  while  he  gathers 
up  the  folds  of  his  earthly  garments,  and  stands  with  upturned 
face  calmly  awaiting  the  voice  that  shall  call  him  on  high. 
We  will  not  say  he  went  away  too  soon,  for  he  has  often 
been  with  us  since,  and  we  feel  that  in  the  last  trying  moment 
of  nature  he  will  not  be  absent. 

The  condition  of  my  health  demanding  that  I  should  return 
to  Northampton,  I  left  Sarah  the  last  of  October.  In  a  few 
days  she  went  to  Shirley  village  to  spend  the  time  of  my  ab 
sence.  The  family  at  home  were  now  slowly  recovering,  and 
joyfully  welcomed  the  strongest  of  their  number  back  to  the 
household.  A  few  days  after  her  arrival,  she  writes  thus  to 
a  friend  at  Gloucester :  — 

"  While  my  little  Carrie  is  asleep,  I  must  write  you  a  few  lines, 
for  my  heart  yearns  toward  Gloucester,  and  I  wish  much  to  know 
how  you  are  all  prospering  in  my  absence.  You,  perhaps,  will  also 
like  to  hear  of  me.  At  any  rate,  I  do  not  like  to  be  forgotten,  and 
shall  occasionally  remind  you  of  my  existence. 

"  We  arrived  home  safely,  at  three  o'clock  of  the  day  we  left 
Gloucester.  I  found  my  friends  all  improved  in  health.  Mother's 
countenance  startled  me,  pale  and  thin  as  I  am  accustomed  to  see  her 
look.  But  she  is  able  to  be  about  the  house,  and  to  ride  out,  for 
which  we  all  feel  deeply  grateful,  as  we  indeed  ought ;  for  if  ever  a 
guardian  angel  watched  over  mortal  beings,  such  a  guardian  has 
our  mother  been  to  us.  My  brothers  are  able  to  limp  about  the 
streets,  and  are  now  in  a  state  to  make  sport  of  their  discomforts. 


118  MEMOIH. 

We  find  ourselves  very  happy  together,  notwithstanding  the  deep 
sorrow  that  each  one  feels,  but  no  one  utters.  The  pride,  the  glory 
of  our  house  is  gone.  How  keenly  I  feel  it  here,  where,  at  every 
step,  I  meet  traces  and  memories  of  the  departed.  His  pure  and  ten 
der  spirit  seems  to  have  consecrated  every  spot  of  home.  Only  a 
few  weeks  since  we  were  together  here,  in  the  room  where  I  now 
sit,  forming  prospects  for  coming  years.  At  this  table  we  drew  the 
plan  of  a  noble  enterprise,  in  which  he  was  to  be  leader.  The  very 
walls  have  scarcely  yet  lost  the  echo  of  the  hopes  he'then  uttered. 
Amid  such  mementoes  of  bereaved  love  and  frustrated  plans,  how 
deeply  do  I  rejoice  in  the  consciousness  of  his  spiritual  presence. 
How  many  times  do  I  feel  my  tears  reproved  by  a  voice  that  addresses 
my  soul  that  says,  — '  I  am  ever  with  you,  sister.'  It  is  this  only 
that  sustains  me  ;  for  did  1  feel  him  indeed  gone,  then  all  were  gone  ; 
for  the  whole  universe  could  not  satisfy  or  console  me  without 
him. 

"  I  have  heard  from  my  husband  since  I  came  here.  He  is  still 
improving  in  health,  and  impatiently  looking  forward  to  his  return. 
His  physician  feels  confident  that  two  months  will  cure  him  ;  but  we 
dare -not  be  too  sanguine.  It  seems  too  much  happiness  to  have  him 
well,  and  to  be  able  to  return  to  Gloucester  together  once  more.  My 
life  has  been  so  broken  up  by  disappointments,  that  I  long  since  gave 
up  the  habit  of  expecting  anything.  For  that  reason,  perhaps,  afflic 
tions  do  not  overwhelm  me  as  they  do  those  who  have  experienced 
them  less.  Sometimes  a  sweet  dream  haunts  me  of  happy  life  spent 
in  Gloucester ;  of  a  home  there  filled  with  peace  and  industry,  and 
love  ;  of  my  husband  ministering  to  a  people  who  have  endeared 
themselves  to  us  by  a  thousand  kindnesses  ;  of  my  daughter  grow 
ing  in  goodness  and  filling  our  house  with  joy.  But  it  seems  to  me 
a  dream,  rather  than  anything  really  destined  to  be. 

"  I  pass  my  time  very  pleasantly,  because  very  busily,  here,  divided 
between  literary  and  maternal  cares.  I  study  two  languages  —  Ger 
man  and  '  baby-talk'  —  the  latter  the  more  interesting  of  the  two. 
*  *  *  *  So  life  passes  with  us.  Shall  I  not,  through  you, 
hear  of  the  welfare  of  our  Gloucester  friends  ?  I  think  of  you  all 
many  times  a  day,  and  with  a  peculiar  interest,  such  as  I  feel  for  no 
other  people. 

"  Shall  I  ever  forget,  or  cease  to  love,  a  place  hallowed  to  me  by  the 
entrance  of  one  dear  spirit  into  life,  and  the  departure  of  another  to 
immortality?  Shall  I  ever  forget,  or  cease  to  love,  the  people  who 
have  been  friends  to  him,  and  more  than  friends  to  us?  To  all  these 
friends,  when  they  speak  of  me,  give  my  kind  remembrance." 


MEMOIR.  119 

I  remained  in  Northampton  a  month,  during  which  time, 
she  was  principally  occupied  in  the  delightful  care  of  her 
child.  Yet  her  studies  were  not  entirely  neglected.  A  few 
good  books  were  read :  The  "  Autobiography  of  Goethe," 
Miss  Austin's  "  Characteristics  of  Goethe,"  and  "  Martin,"  by 
Eugene  Sue.  Of  the  latter  she  writes  thus  :  — 

"  I  have  done  little  except  read  '  Martin,'  since  you  left.  I  found 
it  extremely  interesting,  of  course,  and  the  interest  was  of  a  more 
pleasing  character  than  that  of  the  '  Wandering  Jew.'  As  a  work 
of  art,  it  is  not  so  complicated.  It  shows  up  frightfully  the  evils  of 
the  existing  state  of  society,  the  miseries  and  inevitable  crimes  of  the 
poor,  the  recklessness  and  cold-blooded  tyranny  of  the  rich.  In  our 
happier  land,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  believe  that  such  horrors  can 
anywhere  exist :  and  yet  we  have  evidences  every  day,  that  society 
with  us  has  its  deplorable  injustices  and  wrongs.  '  Martin'  is  a 
strong  book  for  the  Associationists  ;  it  will  give  a  more  popular  ap 
prehension  of  their  doctrines  than  a  thousand  logical  treatises.  The 
characters  are  well  drawn  and  sustained.  The  prudish  will  find  the 
same  objections  that  have  been  urged  against  the  '  Mysteries  of 
Paris,'  not  perceiving  that  there  is  a  great  difference  between  show 
ing  up  crime  and  loathsome  depravity  in  a  humorous  or  alluring 
manner,  and  exhibiting  it  in  its  naked  horrors,  as  an  evil  that  must  be 
hunted  unto  the  death." 

She  also  read  and  translated  many  of  the  charming  poems 
of  Uhland,  intending  to  prepare  the  entire  volume  for  publica 
tion,  but  domestic  cares  interfered  with  the  plan,  and  it  was 
finally  abandoned. 

In  November  I  returned  to  her,  better  in  health  than  I  had 
been  for  several  years.  We  immediately  returned  to  Glouces 
ter,  and  spent  the  month  of  December  in  domestic  arrange 
ments.  The  beginning  of  the  year  1848  found  us  again  set 
tled,  in  a  new  home,  with  thankful  hearts,  looking  forward  to 
a  renewal  of  professional  labors. 

During  the  winter  and  spring,  until  the  first  of  May,  we 
remained  at  home,  and  I  can  truly  say,  that  I  never  enjoyed 
four  months  of  higher  spiritual  peace.  It  was  a  daily  bless 
ing,  to  live  with  Sarah,  for  she  had  overcome  the  world,  and 
communicated  the  tranquillity  of  her  own  mind  to  all  around 
her.  She  dwelt  in  no  mystical  region  of  communion  with 


120  MEMOIR. 

Heaven,  but  her  daily  life  was  glorified  by  the  presence  of 
God.  Never  was  she  more  scrupulous  in  the  performance  of 
the  minutest  household  duties  than  now ;  and  her  care  for  her 
child  was  constant.  In  the  new  sphere  of  maternal  duty  she 
displayed  the  same  tenderness,  directed  by  strong  common 
sense,  as  in  all  former  conditions  of  her  life.  As  far  as  was 
consistent  with  domestic  employments,  her  social  relations 
were  also  resumed  ;  but  her  time  was  principally  occupied  in 
her  own  house. 

She  continued  her  German  studies  with  increasing  inter 
est,  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  English  reading.  Much  time 
was  given  to  Goethe,  whose  works  she  read  with  ever  increasing 
delight.  She  also  commenced  'the  study  of  Plato,  several  of 
whose  dialogues  she  read  in  Cousin's  French  Translation. 
Of  these  she  translated  aloud  to  me  "  Euthyphron,"  "The 
Apology  of  Socrates,"  "  Phsedo,"  and  "  The  Banquet."  Two 
such  writers,  of  course,  excluded  most  others  from  her  thoughts. 
Yet  her  favorite  volumes  of  religious  reading,  "  Martineau's 
Endeavors  after  the  Christian  Life,"  were  often  in  her  hands. 
She  writes  thus  of  her  pursuits,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  :  — 

"  I  have  read  '  Herman  and  Dorothea,'  and  '  Idyl,'  by  Goethe,  this 
winter,  and  have  been  perfectly  charmed  with  it ;  and  I  am  now 
reading ,'  Elective  Affinities' ;  have  read  only  about  fifty  pages,  so'  1 
cannot  form  much  of  an  opinion  of  the  work,  but  on  every  page  I  am 
struck  with  Goethe's  remarkable  insight  into  all  the  little  peculiari 
ties  of  human  character,  and  the  perfectly  easy  and  natural  manner 
in  which  they  are  displayed.  The  doctrine  of  '  Elective  Affinities' 
has  been  broached  in  a  conversation  upon  Chemistry,  which  is  held 
by  the  characters  of  the  story.  When  I  write  again,  if  I  do  not  for 
get  it,  I  will  tell  you  something  of  the  manner  in  which  this  doctrine 
is  illustrated  by  the  narrative. 

"  I  spend  so  much  time  on  German,  that  I  get  little  time  for  other 
reading.  We  like  the  '  Princess'  exceedingly.  It  shows  a  greater 
versatility  of  power  than  I  supposed  Tennyson  possessed.  He  is, 
par  excellence,  the  poet  of  the  age. 

"  I  have  read  '  Jane  Eyre,'  and  am  much  pleased  with  it,  though 
it  is  not  without  faults.  I  think  Jane's  character  is  vigorously -por 
trayed,  and  though  some  ladies  accuse  her  of '  coarseness,'  I  can  see 
nothing  in  her  conduct  inconsistent  with  the  truest  impulses  of  a 
noble,  womanly  nature." 


MEMOIH.  121 

The  experience  of  the  last  year  had  elevated  her  nature  to 
a  higher  plane  of  thought  and  meditation.  In  her  social  in 
tercourse  there  appeared  a  chastened  tenderness  and  self-pos 
session  more  engaging  than  the  enthusiastic  manner  of  former 
years.  Her  intellectual  tastes  were  purified ;  she  read  none 
but  the  highest  books,  and  wrote  nothing.  In  fact,  at  one 
time  she  determined  not  to  publish  again.  "  I  shall  never 
write  good  poetry  till  I  go  to  heaven,"  she  one  day  said,  in 
reply  to  my  expressions  of  regret  at  this  determination.  The 
same  elevation  of  feeling  was  discoverable  in  her  religious 
nature.  If  her  Christian  sympathies  had  been  liberal  before, 
they  now  became  universal.  Any  expression  of  sectarian  par 
tiality,  from  whatever  source,  was  received  in  a  manner  which 
would  have  convinced  any  one  that  she  was  a  member  only 
of  the  great  spiritual  church  of  her  Master.  Our  conversa 
tions  of  the  departed  were  always  cheerful.  She  felt  their 
presence  to  be  no  interruption  to  the  joys  or  the  merriment 
of  social  intercourse.  She  was  in  truth  ripening  for  another 
existence. 

In  the  last  days  of  April  we  went  to  Shirley  village  and 
Warwick,  where  we  remained  three  weeks.  It  was  a  season 
of  great  happiness.  One  incident  I  cannot  forget ;  a  ride  to  a 
wild  glen  in  Warwick,  on  the  first  of  May,  from  which  we 
returned  with  a  wagon  piled  with  flowers  of  the  arbutus,  and 
green  mosses  torn  from  the  rocks.  We  returned  home,  and 
soon  after,  I  went  to  Boston  to  spend  the  week  of  the  anniver 
saries.  During  my  absence  she  resumed  her  pen,  and  wrote 
two  short  tales,  and  the  poems  of  "  The  Adventure,"  "  Con 
templation,"  "  Devotion,"  and  the  "  Shadow-Child."  for  the 
"  Rose  "  of  1849 ;  —  the  editing  of  which  she  had  again  reluc 
tantly  undertaken.  The  "  Shadow-Child  "  was  the  last  poetry 
she  wrote,  and  there  was  a  beautiful  propriety  that  her  first 
and  last  written  words  should  express  the  same  class  of  sen 
timents  ;  the  latter  being  an  utterance  of  her  maternal  love, 
and  the  former  of  her  girlish  attachment  to  her  favorite  dog, 
and  the  robins  that  sang  upon  the  branches  of  the  elm-trees 
over  her  father's  roof. 

The  month  of  June  was  busily  employed  in  study.  We 
11 


122  MEMOIR. 

read  together  the  drama  of  "  Wallenstein,"  in  the  German  of 
Schiller,  and  the  "  Rose  "  was  passing  through  press.  Social 
hahits  were  resumed,  and  we  began  to  anticipate  the  pleasure 
of  the  summer  months  ;  resolved  that  the  happiness  of  others 
should  more  directly  concern  us  this  season  than  it  had  ever 
before.  A  delightful  visit  from  her  mother  and  sister  will  not 
be  forgotten  by  those  of  us  who  are  left.  But  the  time  of  her 
departure  was  approaching.  On  the  first  Sabbath  of  July  she 
atttended  church  and  received  the  communion.  In  the  after 
noon  the  Unitarian  and  Universalist  societies  united  in  the 
funeral  services  of  Mr.  William  Babson,  an  aged  and  beloved 
member  of  our  parish.  I  preached  a  discourse  upon  the  "  Sep 
aration  of  Friends."  Little  did  I  think  that  the  meditations 
of  that  week  were  to  prepare  my  soul  for  the  solemn  scenes 
of  the  few  coming  days.  On  that  Sabbath  eve  we  talked  of 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  I  read  to  her  the  outlines  of  a 
discourse  I  had  been  contemplating  upon  this  subject.  She 
spoke  of  her  brother,  and  said  that  every  night,  for  months,  she 
had  seen  him  so  vividly  in  dreams  that  he  seemed  to  be  with 
her  during  the  day. 

On  Monday  and  Tuesday  she  was  slightly  indisposed,  but 
desired  me  to  go  upon  a  short  excursion  to  recruit  my  energies 
somewhat  wasted  by  the  anxieties  of  the  last  week.  On  my 
return,  Tuesday  evening,  I  found  her  upon  the  bed,  from 
which  she  never  rose.  Her  illness  hurried  her  on  to  death 
with  a  rapidity,  which  no  medical  skill  could  arrest.  On 
Friday  she  revived,  and  all  believed  she  would  recover. 
Her  conversation  was  cheerful,  and  she  assured  me  that  the 
violence  of  her  disease  had  abated.  But  at  night  it  returned 
with  increased  power,  and  on  Saturday  morning  I  felt  that 
she  must  be  called  away.  Her  intense  suffering  prevented 
her  from  talking  with  us  till  Sabbath  noon.  Then  her  pain 
left  her,  and  she  lay  with  a  heavenly  smile  upon  her  face 
awaiting  her  departure.  As  we  stood  around  her  bed  we  felt 
the  impotence  of  death  in  the  presence  of  the  immortal  spirit. 
No  anxieties  for  our  welfare  disturbed  her,  but  the  calm  radi 
ance  of  her  eyes  and  the  low  melody  of  her  voice,  as  she 
looked  upon  us  and  spoke  of  death,  were  like  that  of  a  spirit 


MEMOIR.  123 

that  has  seen  the  heaven  to  which  it  is  hastening.  At  sunset 
she  sunk  into  a  state  of  unconsciousness,  and  when  darkness 
fell  upon  the  earth  she  passed  to  her  eternal  home. 

We  carried  her  to  her  burial  arrayed  in  the  flowers  she  loved. 
Her  mortal  remains  now  rest  in  the  beautiful  cemetery  of  her 
native  village,  almost  under  the  shadow  of  the  church  spire, 
upon  the  brow  of  a  hill,  whose  base  is  washed  by  Bow-Brook. 
"I  have  work  to  do  in  heaven,  but  I  will  always  be  with  you," 
were  her  last  words  to  me,  and  when  on  the  Sabbath  follow 
ing  I  spoke  to  my  people  on  the  "  Immortality  of  the  Soul," 
we  felt  that  she  was  indeed  among  us ;  and  we  trust  that  her 
high  example  has  not  been  lost,  but  has  aided  us  to  accept 
the  affliction  of  her  departure  in  the  spirit  of  him  who  said  in 
his  hour  of  trial,  "  Father,  not  my  will  but  thine  be  done." 

If  I  have  succeeded  in  presenting  a  faithful  picture  of  the 
subject  of  this  Memoir,  no  one  can  fail  to  understand  her  char 
acter,  whether  expressed  in  her  life,  correspondence,  or  literary 
productions.  Her  nature  was  as  simple  as  it  was  deep  and 
beautiful,  and  can  be  expressed  by  no  other  word  than  that 
which  was  always  upon  her  lips  —  Love.  Love  for  everything 
great,  and  good,  and  beautiful ;  —  Love  for  these  qualities  so 
intense,  that  it  could  separate  them  from  the  repulsive  union 
with  gross  affections  in  which  they  are  too  often  found  in 
human  character ;  —  Love  so  disinterested  that  her  life  was 
always  more  in  the  wants  and  sympathies  of  others,  than  of 
herself;  flowing  out,  not  only  in  the  form  of  benevolence  and 
kindness,  but  of  confidence  in  man,  and  a  willingness  to  im 
part  the  richest  treasures  of  her  heart,  to  bless  the  humblest 
one  about  her  ;  —  rising  like  a  constant  hymn  of  praise  to  the 
Father  of  love,  and  giving  to  every  act  of  life  an  unconscious 
grace  and  sanctity  caught  from  a  converse  with  spiritual 
realities  —  this  is  the  beginning  and  end  of  her  character. 
Of  those  arts  by  which  we  endeavor  to  supply  the  place  of 
genuine  emotion  she  knew  nothing ;  for  her  own  interest  or 
reputation  she  was  not  concerned ;  she  was  always  so  devoted 
to  those  nearest  her  that  she  had  no  time  to  study  her  own 
fancies,  or  regret  that  they  were  not  gratified.  Neither  was 


124  MEMOIR. 

this  a  sickly  or  sentimental  manifestation  of  affection.  It  was 
not  that  shallow  affectionateness  which  takes  the  form  of  an 
incessant  craving  for  sympathy,  and  a  boundless  demand  upon 
the  good  offices  of  others  ;  —  a  sentiment  which,  at  best,  is 
only  the  most  interesting  form  of  selfishness ;  —  her  nature 
was  singularly  healthy,  her  love  as  honest  and  hearty  as  it 
was  refined  and  penetrating.  She  loved,  because  she  could 
not  help  it,  and  with  the  whole  force  of  her  being. 

The  power  of  this  sentiment  was  the  source  of  all  the 
strength  and  beauty  of  her  character.  It  preserved  her  from 
a  life  of  diseased  introspection,  to  which  the  retired  and  studi 
ous  are  so  much  exposed.  It  elevated  the  lowest  duties  per 
formed  for  the  welfare  of  others  to  the  dignity  of  religious 
acts ;  it  made  her  content  in  any  spot,  and  under  any  circum 
stances,  for  deep  and  constant  affection  can  annihilate  distance, 
and  overlook  present  inconvenience,  in  the  intensity  of  its  con 
ceptions,  and  its  self-sufficing  suggestions ;  it  gave  her  faith  in 
God  in  the  darkest  hours,  for  love  in  our  own  souls  is  the  only 
thing  that  can  assure  us  of  the  omnipotence  of  love  in  the 
universe ;  it  imparted  that  unconscious  gentleness  and  grace 
to  her  person,  her  manners,  and  conversation,  that  no  one 
could  resist ;  it  was  the  seat  of  a  reserved  energy  which  the 
heaviest  pressure  of  discouraging  circumstances  could  develop, 
but  never  overcome ;  it  was  also  the  source  of  the  ease  with 
which  she  threw  off  the  burden  of  care,  and  became  a  very 
child  in  her  enjoyment  of  humor  and  gayety.  Where  love 
exists,  as  in  her  nature,  it  is  the  great  interpreter  of  all  mani 
festations  however  opposite,  for  it  contains,  in  a  comprehensive 
unity,  the  elements  of  the  widest  diversity. 

And  in  the  depth  of  this  sentiment  must  be  found  the  key 
of  interpretation  to  all  she  wrote.  Of  the  selections  from  her 
writings,  contained  in  this  volume,  considered  as  literary  pro 
ductions,  it  does  not  become  me  to  express  an  opinion  more 
fully  than  I  have  in  the  progress  of  the  narrative.  I  may, 
however,  remark,  that  any  criticism  of  them  which  is  not 
based  upon  a  thorough  comprehension  of  her  character  and 
life,  will  be  unjust  and  false.  For  she  wrote  sincerely,  if  a 
human  being  ever  did.  Her  lines  glow  with  her  own  ex- 


MEMom,  125 

perience  ;  —  they  are  a  record  of  her  own  toils,  and  joys,  and 
sorrows,  the  chronicle  of  her  highest  intercourse  with  Nature, 
Man,  and  God.  That  she  should  fail  to  give  full  utterance  to 
herself  is  not  strange,  when  we  consider  the  disparity  between 
her  outward  and  inward  life.  It  pleased  her  Father  that,  for 
some  future  state  of  being,  should  be  reserved  the  complete 
expression  of  that  nature,  which  was  a  poem  and  a  prayer. 
Her  literary  reputation  is  safe  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  knew 
and  understood  her;  and  let  no  other  one  presume  to  test  it  by 
artificial  rules,  and  thus  betray  his  own  ignorance  of  the  laws 
which  regulate  the  motions  of  love,  when  it  speaks  out  of  its 
deep  and  sacred  places  to  the  world. 

I  close  this  inadequate  memoir  of  my  sainted  wife  with  a 
feeling  of  profound  thankfulness  to  God  that  I  have  been 
spared  to  pay  even  a  feeble  tribute  to  her  worth.  May  it  be 
received  by  those  whom  we  both  loved  in  a  spirit  of  charity 
which  overlooks  all  deficiences.  None  of  us  can  say  the  best 
thing  we  know  about  her ;  or  tell  what  she  has  done  for  us. 
That  can  be  seen  only  by  the  faith  which  we  exhibit  in  sub 
mission  to  the  great  affliction  of  her  loss,  and  the  higher  life, 
by  which,  during  our  allotted  time  upon  earth,  we  prove  our 
selves  the  partakers  of  her  spirit,  and  make  ourselves  fitting 
companions  for  her  in  that  world  where  we  shall  know  each 
other  and  know  God  forever. 

Gloucester,  April  8,  1849. 


11* 


MRS.  8.  C.  E.  MAYO. 

BY  MRS.  H.  J.  W.  LEWIS. 
"  I  do  not  weep  for  thee ;  —  I  hare  not  wept ! " — S.  C.  E.  MAYO. 

SISTKRT  friend,  poetess,  a  long  farewell ! 

There  needs  not  many  words  to  paint  my  grief. 
Wife,  Mother,  Nature's  Priestess !  who  can  tell 

The  sum  of  all  thy  joys  in  life  so  brief! 
The  beauty  of  thy  daily  walk  they  know 

Who  dwelt  within  the  circle  of  thy  love  — 
Thy  calm  pure  faith,  thy  truth  like  spotless  snow, 

Thy  spirit  strong,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove ! 
And  shall  we  hear  no  more  the  strain  sublime, 

Or  soft,  or  touching,  thou  hast  breathed  so  well  ? 
Can  we  resign  thee  in  thy  life's  sweet  prime, 

And,  lost  to  earth,  give  thee  with  God  to  dwell? 
I  have  wept  burning  tears,  and  still  must  weep, 
That  one  so  great  and  good  should  fall  asleep ! 


POETICAL    SELECTIONS. 


TOKENS. 

9 

THOU,  on  the  throne  of  heaven  ! 

Who  'rt  bidding  stars  speed  forth  with  light  and  song, 
What  token  hast  thou  given, 

To  lead  thy  children  hopefully  along  ? 

All  tokens  hast  thou  given  ; 

Buds  to  the  tree  of  fall,  stars  to  the  night, 
Rainbows  to  clouded  heaven, 

And  to  the  polar  skies,  a  mystic  light. 

Sunshine  to  earth's  decay, 

Awakening  winds  to  early  hours  of  spring, 
Music  to  dawning  day, 

And  life,  and  light,  and  joy  to  everything. 

A  Lamb  without  a  spot, 

Slain  on  the  altar  for  our  sinful  race  —  « 

What  tokens  have  we  not, 

Father  of  love !  to  speak  thy  boundless  grace ! 
1837. 


TO  MY  SISTERS. 

YE  have  seen  the  bow  in  the  eastern  .sky, 
When  the  shade  past  off  from  Apollo's  eye ; 
Ye  have  marked  its  soft  and  varied  light  — 
Can  ye  tell  the  lines  where  its  hues  unite  ? 
Our  hearts  are  a  rainbow  of  varied  dye, 
Blended  as  softly  as  that  of  the  sky. 

Ye  have  marked  the  pansy,  that  lowly  flower, 
That  smiles  at  the  frown  of  the  wintry  hour ; 


128  POETICAL  SELECTIONS. 

Its  petals  may  differ  when  blooming  apart, 

But  they  wear  one  hue  at  the  fragrant  heart. 

Our  spirits  are  leaflets  of  separate  hue, 

But  one  at  the  linking  —  they  're  all  of  them  true. 

Ye  have  seen  three  stars  of  a  different  light, 

Enriching  the  brow  of  the  cloudless  night ; 

And  though  not  bound  by  a  visible  tie, 

Yet  they  move  like  one  through  the  azure  sky. 

Our  souls  are  stars  of  a  differing  ray, 

But  they  speed  like  one  on  the  same  bright  way. 

Ye  have  seen  the  birds  of  the  same  dear  nest,     i 
Forsaking  the  shade  of  their  mother's  breast  • 
But  though  straying  apart  in  the  leafy  grove, 
They  soar  in  a  group  to  the  fields  above. 
Though  here,  like  those  birds  we  may  widely  roam, 
Together  we  '11  rise  to  our  heavenly  home  ! 

1838. 


THE  CROWN  OF  LIFE. 

THERE  's  a  crown  for  the  monarch,  a  golden  crown- 
And  many  a  ray  from  its  wreath  streams  down, 
Of  an  iris  hue  from  a  thousand  gems, 
That  are  woven  in  blossoms  on  jewelled  stems. 
They  've  rifled  the  depths  of  Golconda's  mine, 
And  stolen  the  pearls  from  the  ocean  brine  ; 
But  the  rarest  gem,  and  the  finest  gold, 
On  a  brow  of  care  lies  heavy  and  cold. 

There  's  a  crown  for  the  victor,  of  lotus-flowers, 
Braided  with  myrtle  from  tropical  bowers  ; 
And  the  golden  hearts  of  the  nymphaea  gleam 
From  their  snowy  bills,  with  a  mellow  beam. 
They  have  stript  the  breast  of  the  sacred  Nile, 
And  ravished  the  bowers  of  the  vine-clad  isle  ; 
But  the  sweetest  flower  from  the  holy  flood, 
And  the  vine,  will  fade,  on  a  brow  of  blood  ! 

There  's  a  crown  for  the  poet,  a  wreath  of  bay  — 
A  tribute  of  praise  to  his  thrilling  lay. 
The  amaranth  twines  with  the  laurel  bough, 
And  seeks  a  repose  on  his  pensive  brow. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  129 

They  've  searched  in  the  depths  of  Italia's  groves, 
To  find  out  the  chaplet  a  poet  loves  ; 
But  a  fadeless  wreath,  in  vain  they  have  sought  — 
It  withers  away  on  a  brow  of  thought. 

There  's  a  crown  for  the  Christian,  a  crown  of  life, 
Gained  in  the  issues  of  bloodless  strife. 
fT  is  a  halo  of  hope,  of  joy,  and  of  love, 
Brightened  by  sunbeams  from  fountains  above. 
They  've  gathered  its  rays  from  sources  afar, 
From  seraphim's  eyes,  and  Bethlehem's  star  ; 
And  the  flow  of  its  light  will  ever  increase, 
For  a  Christian's  brow,  is  a  brow  of  peace. 
1838. 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 

THERE  was  a  tender  Shepherd,  and  he  dwelt 

In  Palestine.     His  faithful  lambs  were  fed 
Upon  the  sweetest  herbage,  and  they  knelt 

With  grateful  hearts,  and  found  a  welcome  bed 
Close  at  his  feet.     Devotedly  they  loved 

Their  gentle  Guide,  and  followed  in  his  track, 
Like  waiting  angels  ;  or,  if  any  roved 

Unguardedly,  he  sought,  and  brought  them  back. 

He  was  so  good  a  Shepherd,  and  his  flock 

Were  watched  with  such  untiring  care,  and  led 
To  such  sweet  founts  —  such  as  th'  eternal  Rock 

Alone  e'er  yielded,  —  were  so  richly  fed 
And  kindly  sheltered,  many  sought  his  fold 

From  other  flocks,  and  humbly  begged  a  share ; 
Nor  was  the  weakest  pleader  ever  told 

To  turn  away,  for  all  were  welcome  there  ! 

Then  was  the  Shepherd  summoned  to  a  land 

Far  from  the  country  of  his  faithful  sheep  : 
He  called  together  all  his  dear-loved  band 

Of  brethren  ;  and  he  bade  them  safely  keep 
His  helpless  flock,  and  feed  his  lambs,  —  for  foes, 

Clad  in  the  guise  of  friends,  would  seek  to  win 
Their  guileless  hearts,  and  many  fearful  woes 

Would  hard  beset  them,  —  from  without,  within. 


130 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 


When  to  his  mourning  flock  he  gently  spake  : 

"  Ye  little  ones,  I  go  —  't  is  to  prepare 
A  better  place  for  you  ;  but,  for  my  sake, 

Be  careful  of  your  safety.     O  !  beware 
Of  false,  enticing  thieves,  for  they  will  seek 

To  lead  my  little  lambs  astray.     Ye  know 
Your  own  true  Shepherd's  voice  —  and  when  I  speak, 

Then  shall  ye  follow,  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

"  Beloved,  do  not  grieve  that  I  depart  — 

A  little  while,  and  we  shall  meet  again  ; 
Then  will  I  lead  you,  cherished  of  my  heart, 

To  a  far  sweeter  pasture,  to  a  plain 
Where  living  waters  flow,  and  soothing  shades 

Give  peace  and  joy  ;  where  sorrow,  pain,  and  cold, 
Can  never  enter  ;  where  no  foe  invades  — 

But  one  Good  Shepherd  guards  one  peaceful  fold." 

1838. 


"THE  PURE  IN  HEART  SEE  GOD." 

IN  the  lone  dell  and  by  the  leaping  fountain, 
Where  the  moss  springeth  by  the  hazel-rod, 
By  the  wild  rose-tree  on  the  rugged  mountain, 

The  pure  in  heart  see  God. 
They  see  him  where  the  wild  cascade  is  foaming 
Above  the  dark  and  deeply-fretted  rocks, 
And  where,  through  primrose-meadows  meekly  roaming, 

Are  feeding  snow-white  flocks. 

Where  crested  waves  o'er  rocks  are  wildly  dashing, 
Where  nought  but  venturous  mermaid  e'er  hath  trod, 
Where  scattered  sea-gems  in  the  light  are  flashing, 

The  pure  in  heart  see  God. 
They  see  him  in  the  dim  and  tangled  wild-wood, 
Where  dreamy  music  haunts  the  hollow  ground  ; 
They  see  him  in  the  rosy  bowers  of  childhood, 

Where  light  and  song  abound. 

In  the  gay  city,  where  earth's  golden  splendor 
Starts  from  its  hidden  caves,  and  roams  abroad  ; 
Where  crowds,  to  empty  pomp,  their  peace  surrender, 
The  pure  in  heart  see  God. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  131 

They  see  him  in  the  cot,  where  bendeth  lowly 
The  humble  worshipper  at  God's  own  shrine, 
Whose  mind  is  fixed  on  heaven,  whose  heart  is  holy, 
Whose  hopes  are  all  divine. 

Where  the  green  willow  on  the  grave  low  traileth, 
Where  the  sweet  pansy  weeps  upon  the  sod, 
Where  all  the  pride  of  man  in  terror  faileth, 

The  pure  in  heart  see  God. 

They  see  him  where  the  gate  of  heaven  wide  swingeth, 
And  they  are  led  by  angel-hands  within  ; 
Where  Jesus  all  his  fold  together  bringeth, 

Without  a  trace  of  sin. 
1838. 


THE  TEMPTATION  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

WITH  the  celestial  baptism  on  thy  soul, 
Thou  wert  led  lonely  to  the  dim  old  wood, 

Where  even  flower-bells  have  a  low,  sad  toll, 
As  they  bend  down  to  die  in  solitude. 

Through  long,  long  days  and  lonely  nights,  in  prayer 

And  solemn  fasting,  dwelt  thy  spirit  there. 

But,  human  wants  were  with  thee  —  human  cares, 
That  ushered  many  a  pang  upon  thy  breast ; 

Wasted  and  faint,  thy  mortal  frame  scarce  bears 
The  burden  of  its  being  ;  then  the  test, 

The  cruel  test  of  the  Arch-fiend  was  given  ! 

But  thy  unblenching  eye  turned  not  from  heaven. 

Weary  and  lonely  as  thou  wert,  blest  Lord  ! 

Stricken  with  want,  and  far  from  earthly  friends, 
,  Still  the  deep  magic  of  the  tempter's  word 

Could  bend  thee,  but  as  holy  Zion  bends, 
When  the  soft  air  sweeps  by.     Ay,  thou,  unarmed, 
With  all  man's  frailties  on  thee,  wert  not  harmed  ! 

Did  not  the  thought  of  man,  dear  Son  of  God, 
Come  like  a  strengthening  angel  to  thine  aid  1 

For  pure  thy  life  must  be,  or  thou  hadst  trod 
Thus  far  thy  mortal  path  in  vain  ;  and  made 

No  long,  blest  journeyings  to  the  sacrifice, 

For  which  thou  wert  detained  beneath  the  skies. 


132  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

O  what  an  empire  was  by  thee  laid  low, 
When  thou  didst  bid  the  wily  fiend  depart ! 

His  power  resisted  !  his,  the  mighty  foe, 

Whose  chains  had  fettered  every  human  heart ! 

Slowly  he  coiled  the  malice  in  his  breast, 

As  he  turned  back,  and  left  thee  to  thy  rest. 

Then  with  soft,  fluttering  wings,  bright  angels  came, 
And  bore  their  golden  salvers  in  their  hands  ; 

Through  leafy  boughs  they  called  upon  thy  name, 
And  gathered  round  thee  in  adoring  bands  ; 

Then  back  to  heaven  with  lightened  wings  did  flee, 

Bearing  thy  thanks  to  God  for  victory  ! 
1838. 


BOW  BROOK. 

FAR  in  a  wild  and  tangled  glen, 

Where  purple  Arethusas  weep  — 
A  bower  scarce  trod  by  mortal  men  — 

A  haunt  where  timid  dryads  sleep  — 
A  little  dancing,  prattling  thing, 

Sweet  Bow-Brook,  tutor  of  my  muse  ! 
I  've  seen  thy  silver  currents  spring 

From  fountains  of  Castalian  dews. 

A  wilder,  or  more  sylvan  spot, 

Ne'er  wooed  a  poet's  feet  to  roam  ; 
Not  e'en  Calypso's  classic  grot 

Would  be  so  fit  a  fairy's  home. 
The  birchen  boughs,  so  interlaced, 

That  scarce  the  vault  of  heaven  is  seen, 
With  pendant  vines  are  wildly  graced  — 

An  arbor  of  transcendent  green. 

And  rustic  bridge,  a  frail  support 

For  Cinderella's  tiny  foot, 
And  waves  where  naiades  might  sport 

Beneath  some  sweet  aquatic  root ; 
And  further  down,  a  mimic  lake, 

Where  dark  green  woods  o'erlook  the  tide, 
And  fragrant  shrubs  and  feathery  brake 

Spring  up  along  its  grassy  side. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  133 

Oh,  how  my  heart  doth  wildly  thrill 

At  every  thought  of  that  lone  spot, 
Whose  fragrant  solitude,  sweet  rill, 

Thy  beauty  into  being  brought ! 
And  murmur  not,  that  thou  art  made 

An  humble  poet's  favorite  theme  ; 
For  thou,  sweet  lyrist  of  the  glade, 

Thyself  art  but  an  humble  stream. 

And  beautiful  as  e'er  thou  art, 

They  make  thee  labor  at  the  wheel, 
To  ply  the  shaft,  and  swell  the  mart  jjt 

With  products  of  the  loom  and  reel. 
But  much  enraged  at  such  constraint, 

Away  thou  'rt  gliding,  big  with  grief, 
To  breathe  thy  piteous  complaint 

To  every  sympathizing  leaf. 

Upon  thy  tall,  o'erhanging  elms, 

Gay  birds,  with  blue  and  golden  breasts, 
Returned  in  troops  from  austral  realms, 

Found  colonies  of  grassy  nests. 
They  are  protected  —  guileless  birds ! 

For  tender  guardians  dwell  around  ; 
And  oft,  with  keen,  reproving  words, 

They  drive  the  huntsman  from  the  ground. 

In  olden  days  the  Indian  maid, 

With  braided  tresses  sought  thy  bowers, 
And  rifled  every  sunlit  glade 

To  wreathe  her  locks  with  scarlet  flowers. 
Some  chieftain  of  the  forest  wove 

The  blushing  card'nals  o'er  her  brow, 
While  by  thy  waves  he  breathed  his  love 

In  many  a  deep  and  fervent  vow. 

How  oft,  along  thy  verdant  shore, 

I  seek  to  find  some  lingering  trace 
Of  those  who  made,  in  days  of  yore, 

Thy  banks  their  favorite  hunting-place  — 
Yet  vain  the  search  —  no  trace  is  found, 

To  tell  that  ever  dusky  maid, 
Or  warrior  chief  hath  trod  the  ground, 

Where  now,  perchance,  their  bones  are  laid. 

12 


134  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

Upon  thy  bonny  banks,  sweet  stream, 

My  home  succeeds  the  Indian  brave's  ; 
My  infant  eye  first  caught  its  beam, 

Reflected  from  thy  clouded  waves. 
And  oft  I  tread  the  grassy  slope, 

Which  leads  me  to  thy  rose-bound  shore, 
With  ardent  and  increasing  hope 

To  catch  some  fragment  of  thy  lore. 

When  comes  the  holy  hour  to  die, 

How  sweet  to  rest  beside  thy  wave  ! 
How  sweet  beneath  thy  banks  to  lie, 

With  violets  waving  o'er  my  grave  ! 
And  yet  I  would  not  cast  a  shade 

Upon  a  spot  so  bright  and  glad  ; 
A  tomb  would  mar  so  fair  a  glade, 

And  friends  would  find  thy  borders  sad. 

Glide  on,  forever,  warbling  brook  ! 

Earth  has  no  voice  more  dear  than  thine  — 
And  often,  in  some  flowery  nook, 

I  '11  swell  the  lay  with  tones  of  mine. 
Beneath  the  arch  of  some  green  bough, 

Where  mellow  sunbeams  softly  glance, 
I  '11  cast  the  shadows  from  my  brow, 

And  read  to  thee  some  gay  romance. 

A  few  short  years,  or  days  may  be, 

And  thou  wilt  miss  me  from  thy  shore  ; 
Yet  earth  will  still  be  fair  to  thee, 

As  e'er  it  was  in  days  of  yore. 
And  I  shall  sit  upon  the  bank 

Of  that  pure  river  of  my  God , 
Where  sin,  nor  grief  has  ever  drank, 

And  no  polluting  foot  hath  trod  ! 
1838. 


TYPES  OF  HEAVEN. 
WHY  love  I  the  lily-bell, 
Swinging  in  the  scented  dell  ? 
Why  love  I  the  wood-notes  wild, 
Where  the  sun  hath  faintly  smiled  ? 
Daisies,  in  their  beds  secure, 
Gazing  out  so  meek  and  pure  ? 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  135 

Why  love  I  the  evening  dew  - 
In  the  violet's  bell  of  blue  1 
Why  love  I  the  vesper  star, 
Trembling  in  its  shrine  afar  ? 
Why  love  I  the  summer  night, 
Softly  weeping  drops  of  light  ? 

Why  to  me  do  woodland  springs 
Whisper  sweet  and  holy  things  ? 
Why  does  every  bed  of  moss 
Tell  me  of  my  Saviour's  cross  ? 
Why  in  every  dimpled  wave 
Smiles  the  light  from  o'er  the  grave  1 

J* 

Why  do  rainbows  seen  at  even 
Seem  the  glorious  paths  to  heaven  ? 
Why  are  gushing  streamlets  fraught 
With  the  notes  from  angels  caught  ? 
Can  ye  tell  me  why  the  wind 
Bringeth  seraphs  to  my  mind  ? 

Is  it  not  that  faith  hath  bound 
Beauties  of  all  form  and  sound, 
To  the  dreams  that  have  been  given, 
Of  the  holy  things  of  heaven  ? 
Are  they  not  bright  links  that  bind 

Sinful  souls  to  Sinless  Mind  ? 

- 
From  the  lowly  violet  sod, 

Links  are  lengthened  unto  God. 
All  of  holy  —  stainless  —  sweet  — 
That  on  earth  we  hear  or  meet, 
Are  but  types  of  that  pure  love, 
Brightly  realized  above. 

How  could  beauty  be  on  earth, 
Were  it  not  of  heavenly  birth  1 
Foul  things  perish,  but  the  pure, 
Long  as  angels,  will  endure. 
Stars,  and  founts,  and  azure  sky, 
Shine  when  clouds  and  tempests  die. 

Say  ye  that  the  rose  decays  1 
Ay,  ihejlower,  but  not  its  rays— 
Not  its  color  —  not  its  scent  — 
They  were  holy  beauties  lent ;  — 


136  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

That  may  perish —  'tis  but  dust- 
But  it  yieldeth  back  its  trust. 

Fragrance  cometh  from  the  air, 
And  in  time  returneth  there  ; 
Color  cometh  From  the  sky  — 
Thither  goeth,  ne'er  to  die  ; 
Foul  things  perish,  but  the  pure, 
Long  as  angels,  shall  endure. 
1839. 


THE   LAST   SUPPER. 

SOFT  night-winds  through  the  lattice  steal — sweet  guests 

Unwooed,  yet  ever  welcome  to  the  bells 

Of  reverential  flowers.     Dim  moonlight  rests 

Where  their  abiding  exhalation  dwells, 

'Mid  the  entwining  of  young  blossoms ;  there 

Losing  its  chaster  beauty  in  the  glare 

Of  the  bright-flashing  torches.     Through  wild  dells, 

Where  Cedron  murmurs,  came  it.  laden  thence 

With  odors  all  impalpable  to  earthly  sense. 

Through  that  balcony  streaming,  what  see  they, 

Those  startled  moonbeams  ?     Festive  garlands,  strung 

O'er  groups  of  dancers  in  their  bright  array  ? 

Or  dripping  fountains,  through  dim  grottoes  flung 

With  low,  bewildering  music  ?  —  Son  of  God  ! 

Thou  who  through  guileful  snares  hadst  guiltless  trod  ! 

Was  not  their  timid  radiance  o'er  Thee  hung, 

Where,  on  the  board,  mysterious  emblems  stood, 

Broken  and  trickling  then,  as  would  thy  heart  and  blood  ? 

Soft  parted  on  thy  meek  and  spiritual  brow, 
Thy  silken  hair  drooped  gracefully  away  ; 
Thine  eye,  dim-shaded  with  a  tear,  fell  low 
To  that  sweet  face,  upturned  from  where  it  lay 
On  thy  soft,  yearning  bosom  ;  thine,  above, 
Seraphic  in  the  beauty  of  its  love, 
Shedding  a  faint  and  sad,  but  burning  ray, 
On  that  beloved  heart,  whose  faith  had  been 
Thy  love-star,  in  a  world  of  perfidy  and  sin. 

The  brotherhood  were  round  Thee,  mute  with  thought ; 
Prophetic  shadows  dimmed  each  holy  eye, 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  137 

While  musing  on  the  deed  thy  hands  had  wrought, 

To  teach  them  love  and  love's  humility. 

To  him,  Thou  knelt  —  the  traitor !  washed  his  feet, 

Girded  like  menial,  while  he  sat  at  meat ! 

Oh,  black  of  heart !     Heard  he  thy  quivering  sigh? 

"  One  shall  betray  me  !  one,  and  he  a  brother  !  " 

Saw  he  how  each  eye  turned  reproachful  on  another  ? 

The  head  that  had  reposed  upon  thy  breast 

In  sweet  abandonment  and  joyful  love, 

With  startled  eye  was  lifted  from  its  rest, 

Like  the  wild  waking  of  a  brooding  dove  ; 

The  clinging  arm  withdrawn,  the  adoring  smile 

Changed  to  a  mute  solicitude  meanwhile  ; 

"  Lord,  is  it'll"     How  grateful  turned,  above, 

Thy  radiant  eye,  when  that  wild  question  broke 

From  lips  whose  slightest  word  thine  ardent  love  awoke ! 

What  tones  are  those  that  thrill  upon  the  air 
Like  the  wind-stricken  chord  of  some  lone  lyre  ? 
It  is  the  fitful  melody  of  prayer  ! 
Now  painfully  subdued,  now  floating  higher 
In  fervent  faith  and  full  commingling  love. 
Saviour  !   't  is  thy  deep  supplications  move 
Thus  on  the  "  white  wing"  of  unblent  desire 
For  their  protection,  lest  the  snare  fall  nigh, 
When  thy  untangled  feet  could  not  be  hovering  by. 

While  yet  the  moonlit  air  trembled,  and  hung 

Gathered  in  quivering  waves  around  thy  lips, 

Sweet  and  entrancing  music  softly  rung, 

Where,  'mid  balconied  flowers,  the  dew  soft  drips  — 

A  hymn,  a  holy  hymn  of  deep  devotion, 

Where  thy  soft  voice  rose  trembling  with  emotion. 

Angels  might  drop  their  harps,  and  hush  their  lips, 

And  seraphs  pause  upon  the  outspread  wing  ' 

For  why  should  not  they  pause  to  hear  the  Master  sing ! 

That  hymn !  what  was  it?  joy,  and  praise,  and  love, 
Poured  from  fond,  gushing  hearts  in  streams  of  faith? 
Or,  a  low  mournful  plaint,  like  some  lone  dove 
Lading  with  melody  its  dying  breath  ? 
The  traitor  !  was  he  there  ?  did  his  foul  art 
Grate  its  discordant  mockery  on  thy  heart  ? 
12* 


138  POETICAL  SELECTIONS. 

Lord  !  since  thy  mortal  voice  was  hushed  in  death, 

Has  that  unwritten  strain  e'er  ceased  to  float 

In  every  woodland  breeze,  in  every  dell-born  note  ? 

The  sound  grown  still,  the  moonbeams  stole  away  — 
And  the  youiyj  flowers  closed  up  their  starry  eyes  — 
.  Thou,  with  the  eleven  wandered  forth  to  pray 
Where  the  green  olives  veiled  the  silvery  skies  — 
To  Olivet's  sweet  garden  in  the  vale. 
On  thy  jp-ave  cheek,  so  wasted  and  so  pale, 
The  tear-drops,  oft  rebuked,  forbidden  stray, 
Whilst,  on  the  threshold  pausing,  thy  sad  eye 
Turns,  with  a  farewell  glance  ;  —  thou  goest  forth  to  die  ! 
1839. 


SONG. 

SOFTLY,  love,  softly  sleep  ; 
I  will  bid  the  roses  keep 

Vigils  o'er  thy  head  ; 
Winds  shall  breathe  with  murmurs  low, 
Softly  shall  the  wild  brooks  flow 

Round  thy  grassy  bed. 

Sweetly,  love,  sweetly  rest, 
With  the  flowers  upon  thy  breast, 

Drooping  in  repose  ; 
In  thy  wavy,  nut-brown  hair, 
I  will  braid  with  tender  care, 

Violet  and  rose. 

Gently,  love,  gently  dream  — 
Let  the  music  of  the  stream 

Pass  into  thy  soul ; 
Let  me  glide  around  thy  heart  — 
Mine  be  there  the  hallowed  part 

Thy  visions  to  control. 

Holy,  love,  holy  be 

All  thy  thoughts  and  dreams  of  me  ; 

Let  them  be  of  love. 
I  would  seem  unto  thy  sight 
Mantled  in  celestial  light  — 

An  angel  from  above. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  139 

Softly,  love,  softly  sleep ; 
I  will  bid  the  roses  keep 

Vigils  o'er  thy  head  ; 
Winds  shall  breathe  with  murmurs  low, 
Softly  shall  the  wild  brooks  flow 

Round  thy  grassy  bed. 
1840. 


A  SKETCH  FROM  LIFE. 

SHE  grew  in  love.     Around  her  infant  home 
Life  hung  its  summer  hues,  and  very  fair 

Was  this  wild  earth  to  her.     She  learned  to  roam 
In  artless  radiance  where  the  woodland  air 

Showered  trembling  sweetness  on  the  glancing  streams, 

And  stole  its  hue  from  sunset's  golden  beams. 

The  wildwood  squirrels  knew  her  when  she  came, 
And  crept  about  her  for  the  ripe  brown  nut; 

The  birds  half  called  her  by  her  gentle  name, 
Nor  were  the  birds  and  butterflies  forgot ; 

Never  a  woodland  maiden  grew  so  free  ( 

With  nature's  holy  ministers  as  she. 

She  twined  the  orchis  in  her  hazel  hair, 

And  stole  the  violets  from  the  brookside  dell ; 

The  wilding  rose  was  her  peculiar  care, 
Her  dearest  music  was  the  fox-glove's  bell, 

When  the  wild  bee  with  his  transparent  wings 

Stirs  the  sweet  air,  and  makes  believe  he  sings. 

But  changes  come  to  all  —  and  so  they  came 
To  her  ;  and  o'er  her  heart  a  spell  was  thrown. 

No  longer  there  was  love  an  idle  name  ; 

She  learned  to  breathe  it  with  a  softened  tone, 

And  sometimes  she  would  steal  in  tears  away, 

And  sit  among  her  chosen  flowers  to  pray. 

The  glory  of  her  youthful  dream  was  changed. 

It  was  not  darkened,  but  its  colors  grew 
Intense  with  heavenly  light ;  she  was  estranged 

From  her  wild  joys,  and  though  she  still  was  true 
To  her  first  loves  of  nature,  she  had  found 
A  stronger  spell  that  mantled  her  around. 


W  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

It  has  been  said  that  love  doth  bind  the  heart 
More  strongly  to  the  fading  things  of  earth  ; 

Not  so  with  her  ;  — her  spirit  had  no  part 
With  feelings  which  are  but  of  mortal  birth  ; 

She  loved  for  heaven,  and  heaven  became  her  home, 

Long  ere  the  angel  beckoned  her  to  come. 

She  moved  no  longer  careless  through  the  wood, 
But  studied  long  above  a  pale  blue  flower  ; 

"  Forget-me-Not,"  they  call  it,  and  allude 
By  this  sweet  name  to  a  mysterious  power 

Bestowed  on  it  by  love,  —  a  tale  I  knew 

In  younger  life  —  'tis  beautiful  and  true. 

And  was  she  happy  ?  asks  some  gentle  one, 
In  low  soft  accents,  and  with  thoughtful  eye  ; 

Yes,  dear,  and  more  than  happy  ;  though  the  sun 
Was  softly  clouded,  and  the  deep  blue  sky 

Grew  deeper  that  it  was  not  flushed  with  light, 

Though  all  the  clouds  that  shaded  it  were  white. 

The  brooks  had  a  mysterious  murmur  to  her  ear, 
That  seemed  an  echo  from  the  deep-toned  streams 

That  glance  in  sunshine  through  a  brighter  sphere, 
And  warble  forth  the  music  of  rich  dreams. 

All  sounds  had  deepened,  for  her  heart  grew  deep, 

And  fountains  waked  that  ne'er  again  might  sleep. 

Believe  you  spirits  toned  like  hers  have  long 
A  dwelling  on  the  tuneless  shores  of  time  ? 

Not  long.     The  light-winged  bird  soon  hushed  her  song, 
And  floated  up  to  a  serener  clime. 

She  knew  love's  home  could  never  be  below  — 

Why  should  she  linger  to  endure  its  woe  ? 

Home,  like  an  uncaged  bird  she  gladly  sped, 
Home,  with  the  sunbeams  on  her  buoyant  wing  ; 

Home,  where  the  beautiful  have  early  fled, 

And  where  they  make  no  discord  when  they  sing  ; 

Home  hath  she  gone,  and  on  the  grassy  spot 

Where  she  was  laid,  blooms  one  FORGET-ME-NOT. 
1840. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  141 

THE   SPIRIT'S  CHANGE. 

How  beautiful  are  all  the  works  of  God, 
How  beautiful  his  dealings  with  the  heart ! 

There  was  a  time  when  o'er  the  earth  I  trod 
With  eyes  unseeing,  —  when  I  dwelt  apart 

From  all  life's  mysteries,  and  knew  no  care  ; 

Nor  felt  the  strong  necessity  of  prayer. 

There  was  a  time  when  joy  was  in  the  light, 

When  day  with  its  glad  beamings  made  my  bliss  ; 

When  there  was  mournful  beauty  in  the  night, 
And  in  the  grave  a  terrible  abyss  ; 

Such  time  hath  passed,  and  things  are  changed  to  me  — 

'T  is  well,  my  God  !  for  I  am  nearer  thee. 

Morn  bringeth  mournful  peace  and  solemn  thought, 
It  bringeth  prophet-visions  of  the  tomb  ; 

Night-dreams  fade  out,  but  not  the  hues  they  wrought, 
The  shadowy  hues  of  an  approaching  doom ; 

Oh,  they  are  beautiful,  though  wrought  in  tears  ; 

For  death  no  longer  robes  himself  in  fears. 

Ay,  God  hath  dealt  with  me  ;  He  hath  gone  down 

Into  the  silent  slumbers  of  my  heart, 
And  made  me  feel  my  immortality,  and  thrown 

A  spell  around  me  which  may  ne'er  depart ; 
Tides  of  immortal  joy  within  me  roll  — 
Joy  that  subdues  and  sanctifies  the  soul. 

I  move  no  longer  with  a  careless  love 

O'er  the  green  earth,  and  'mid  the  laughing  flowers  ; 
The  deep  affection  I  have  placed  above, 

Absorbs  the  lighter  love  of  lighter  powers  ; 
With  a  wrapt  heart,  I  go  in  silent  dreams 
Among  the  flowers,  and  by  the  gushing  streams. 

How  long  must  I  await  the  gentle  call 

Which  bids  me  to  the  presence  of  thy  love  ? 

Earth  has  her  charms,  but  I  can  leave  them  all 
To  dwell  with  Thee,  eternally  above ; 

How  the  worn  dove  will  weary  for  its  home  ! 

Shall  it  be  long,  dear  Father,  ere  I  come  ? 
1840. 


142  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

LINES  WKITTEN   AT   A  WATERFALL. 

FROM  the  deep  hollow  of  Thy  generous  hand, 

Thou  hast  poured  forth  a  heritage  to  earth  — 

A  heritage  of  beauty  and  of  power, 

Of  glory  and  of  majesty  divine. 

This  giant  work  is  thine,  Oh  God  !  and  man 

May  bow  in  humble  worship  at  its  feet ; 

Proud  to  gaze  upward  through  its  incense  wreath, 

And  dream  he  meets  some  loving  glance  from  Thee. 

Variable  there  thy  beautiful  smile  doth  rest, 
A  rainbow-promise  of  celestial  peace, 
When  o'er  the  mighty  cataract  of  Time 
Our  spirits  shall  have  passed,  and  we  glide  on 
Through  the  bright,  glorious  shores  of  that  blest  land, 
Where  we  shall  know  nor  tumult,  nor  repose, 
But  a  still,  beautiful  passage  on  the  way 
Of  wisdom  and  of  love  forever. 
1840. 


THE  BAPTISM. 

SHE  stood  at  the  altar  with  heavenward  eye, 

All  hazy  and  soft  with  thought ; 
And  her  breath  stole  out  in  a  tremulous  sigh, 

With  passionate  feeling  fraught. 
But  her  brow  was  calm  as  a  bed  of  snow, 

Where  the  moonbeams  softly  rest ; 
And  her  raven.hair  fell  wavy  and  low, 

Like  a  quivering  shade  on  her  breast. 

Her  cheek  was  so  downy,  it  might  have  lain 

On  a  rosebed  through  the  night, 
Nor  borrowed  the  hue  of  a  fragrant  stain, 

On  its  pure  and  shadowless  white. 
But  nought  was  there  seen  on  the  snowy  cheek, 

Or  the  softly  waving  hair, 
Like  the  spirit,  so  earnest  and  sweetly  meek, 

That  rose  from  her  eye  in  prayer. 

She  was  yielding  her  heart,  in  its  shadeless  truth, 
To  the  service  and  faith  of  Heaven  ; 

In  those  sunniest  hours  of  her  spotless  youth, 
Her  love  and  her  trust  were  given. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  143 

She  knelt,  all  holy,  and  breathed  her  vow, 

While  the  priest  from  the  altar  trod, 
With  the  dewy  seal  for  her  radiant  brow, 

Of  a  covenant  formed  with  God. 

O  lovely  as  youth  at  the  bridal  seems, 

Where  the  plighted  heart  is  given, 
A  higher  and  holier  beauty  beams 

From  the  face  of  the  bride  of  Heaven  ! 
A  spirit  devoted  to  holy  love, 

A  child  of  the  second  birth, 
Whose  faith  and  affections  are  anchored  above, 

Is  the  loveliest  thing  on  earth  ! 

But  the  silent  vow  in  the  dell  untrod, 

And  the  bedside  prayer  may  be 
As  sweet  a  pledge,  in  the  sight  of  God, 

Of  faith  and  purity, 
As  the  minster-vow  at  some  ancient  shrine, 

Confirmed  from  the  sacred  bowl ; 
Our  Father  looks  not  on  the  outward  sign, 

But  into  the  secret  soul. 

1840.  ' 

THE  KINGDOM  ABOVE. 

How  chilling  and  sad  is  the  fearful  gloom 
Of  the  coffin  and  shroud,  of  the  pall  and  tomb! 
How  cold  is  the  eye,  when  the  light  of  love 
Hath  fled  to  its  fount  in  the  kingdom  above  ! 

And  the  relict  heart,  with  its  pulseless  grief,— 
How  silent  it  lies,  like  a  fallen  leaf! 
All  the  bright  visions  it  tenderly  wove 
Are  faded  and  fled  to  the  kingdom  above. 

But,  soft  as  the  ray  of  the  vernal  sun, 
The  hallowing  hope  of  heaven  beams  on  ; 
And  the  gentle  voice  of  the  heavenly  Dove 
Is  calling  our  hearts  to  the  kingdom  above. 

No  longer  the  shroud  and  the  pall  wear  gloom  ; 
They  are  travelling  robes  to  a  fairer  home  ; 
Where  hearts  that  were  linked  by  an  earthly  love 
Will  meet  to  inherit  a  kingdom  above. 
1840. 


144  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  DYING. 

"  My  dreams  in  death  have  other  moulds : 
Forms  beautiful  and  bright 
Are  with  me." 

OH,  it  is  sweet  to  die  ! 

They  told  me  death  was  stern,  and  sad,  and  cold  ; 
They  said  there  was  an  anguish  in  his  hold,  — 

That  o'er  the  closing  eye 
He  threw  terrific  images  and  forms,  — 
Grim  phantoms  from  a  far-off  world  of  storms  ! 

It  is  not  so,  my  friends  ! 
There  is  no  dullness  in  the  touch  of  death  : 
To  the  pale,  drooping  rose,  the  south's  warm  breath 

Relief  less  welcome  lends, 

Than  the  soft,  hallowing  spell  around  me  thrown 
By  death's  own  gentle  hand,  and  low,  sweet  tone. 

Not  the  bright  dew,  that  lies 
In  the  rich  urn  of  some  half-opened  rose, 
Rises  more  gently  from  its  soft  repose 

To  the  all-glorious  skies, 
Than  my  long- wasted  spirit  from  its  shrine 
Passes  on  death's  white  wings  to  rest  divine. 

And  spirit-forms  are  here  ; 
No  fearful  spectres  from  the  ghastly  land, 
But  pure  and  beautiful,  —  a  radiant  band 

From  the  celestial  sphere. 

They  stand  around  me  —  hold  my  aching  head  — 
Oh,  bright  ye  are,  sweet  phantoms  of  the  dead  ! 

Yes,  sweet  it  is  to  die  ! 

When  the  long-burdened  spirit  is  worn  down, 
When  the  brow  wearies  of  earth's  thorny  crown, 

How  beautiful  to  lie 
On  the  soft  bosom  of  the  angel,  Death, 
And  let  pain  sigh  away  its  last  faint  breath  ! 

Then  fear  it  not,  my  friends  ! 

Nor  think  it  cold,  and  stern,  and  fraught  with  dread  ; 
Dream  sweeter  visions  of  the  free,  blest  dead  ! 

For,  see  ye  not,  death  blends 
The  hallowed  spirit  with  a  life  all  pure, 
With  fadeless  love,  and  joys  forever  sure  ! 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  145 

Fear  not  the  silent  tomb  ! 
Silent  it  is,  yet  peaceful  and  serene  ; 
No  loneliness  is  there  when  God  is  seen  1 

And,  dear  ones,  there  is  room 
For  Him  who  loves  us,  even  in  the  grave  : 
Distrust  Him  not  —  He  hath  the  will  to  save. 

1840. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  GIRL. 

I  KNOW  a  dim  and  still  retreat, 
Where  woodland  blue-birds  daily  meet ; 
And  where  the  lark,  for  noonday  rest, 
Comes  filled  with  music  from  her  nest. 
In  a  wide  mountain  gorge  it  lies, 
Away  from  human  hearts  and  eyes  ; 
There  echo  brings  her  wild,  deep  song, 
And  sings  it  sweetly  all  day  long, 
Repeating,  of  the  cuckoo's  lay, 
Some  snatches  in  her  own  wild  way, 
And  stealing,  from  the  dancing  rill, 
A  music  more  bewildering  still, 
Or  breathing,  to  the  wind's  low  sigh, 
A  dreamy,  spirit-like  reply. 

The  solemn  trees  grow  wildly  there, 
And  toss  their  branches  in  the  air  ; 
Adown  the  ledge  of  gray  old  stone, 
With  velvet  moss  and  flowers  o'ergrown, 
The  water  trickles  with  a  dim, 
Faint  music  like  a  fairy's  hymn. 
The  tall,  red  columbines  o'erlook 
The  sunny  dimples  of  the  brook, 
And  welcome  from  the  hollow  tree 
The  entrance  of  the  vagrant  bee. 
The  fervent  sunbeams  faintly  dare 
To  smile  upon  the  moss-cups  there  ; 
And  scarce  the  blue-bells,  by  the  stream, 
Will  meet  the  moon's  delirious  beam  ; 
So  soft,  so  holy,  so  serene, 
Is  all  that  shadowy,  wild  ravine. 
13 


146  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

There  stealeth,  at  the  early  morn, 

The  rabbit  and  the  timid  fawn  ; 

There  skips  the  little  squirrel  by, 

With  tail  erect,  and  glistening  eye  ; 

There  glanceth,  too,  —  the  rill  toward,  — 

A  human  foot  across  the  sward  ; 

A  little  foot  that  ever  spares 

The  flower  that  springeth  unawares  ; 

That  danceth  gayly  with  the  brook, 

Or  resteth  in  the  violet  nook  ; 

That  chaseth,  through  the  mountain  rye, 

The  beetle  and  the  butterfly, 

Then,  finding  nothing  else  to  do, 

Tosses  aside  its  old  torn  shoe, 

And,  through  the  passage  of  a  dream, 

Plays  with  the  pebbles  in  the  stream. 

A  dainty  creature,  fair  and  wild, 

Is  that  sweet  vision  of  a  child  ! 

With  sunbeams  in  her  eyes  and  heart, 

And  beauty  yet  unwed  to  art ; 

With  music  in  her  gushing  voice, 

And  love  and  truth  in  every  choice, 

She  seems  like  some  gay  humming-bird, 

With  the  new  gift  of  music  stirred, 

Repaying  to  the  flowers  in  song 

The  sweets  they  dropped  upon  its  tongue. 

Years  pass,  and  yet  the  quiet  scene 
Is  just  as  shadowy  and  serene  ; 
No  change  has  marred  the  violet  nook, 
Nor  turned  aside  the  murmuring  brook  ; 
The  birds  have  not  forgot  their  haunts, 
Nor  the  wild  bee  its  simple  wants  ; 
There  come  they  still  to  pass  away 
The  long,  sweet,  golden  summer  day  ; 
And  there,  all  beautiful  as  light, 
Droop  the  soft  shadows  of  the  night. 
Where  is  the  child,  the  pretty  child, 
So  gay  of  heart,  so  sweetly  wild  ? 
Where  treadeth  now  that  little  foot  ? 
Where  flits  it  in  its  light  pursuit  ? 
Where  dwell  the  merry  laugh  and  shout 
That  once  were  ringing  all  about  ? 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  147 

Let  us  go  trace  the  mountain  rill 
Down  through  the  crevice  of  the  hill. 
Here  winds  it  gently  now  aside 
With  something  of  a  timid  pride, 
Seeking  within  the  dim  retreat 
A  refuge  from  the  summer  heat : 
Like  some  small  silver  chain  it  twines 
Among  the  trees  and  drooping  vines, 
And  kisses,  in  its  cool,  soft  flow, 
The  flowers  that  on  its  borders  grow. 

She  wanders  there,  the  mountain  girl, 

With  sunny  cheek  and  floating  curl ; 

Taller  and  quieter  than  when 

We  saw  her  flitting  through  the  glen  ; 

And  wearing  in  her  soft,  dark  eyes, 

A  wealth  of  human  mysteries. 

Some  feelings  have  been  born  within, 

Earthly,  yet  unallied  to  sin  ; 

The  voice  of  human  love  hath  spoken, 

And  childhood's  spell  at  last  is  broken. 

Her  heart  is  satisfied  no  more 

With  what  it  dearly  loved  before  ; 

Nor  bird,  nor  bee,  nor  woodland  stream, 

To  her  wrapt  spirit  longer  seem, 

In  such  a  world  of  love  as  this, 

Sufficient  ministers  of  bliss. 

Oh  Time,  no  need  of  thine  so  strange 
As  Love's  mysterious,  sudden  change, 
When,  stealing  from  all  else  apart, 
It  clusters  round  one  human  heart ! 
Here  dwells  its  music,  and  its  light, 
Nor  grows  the  outward  world  less  bright, 
That  it  hath  centred  in  one  shrine, 
All  it  hath  recognized  divine. 
That  child  to  womanhood  hath  grown — 
Life's  picture  wears  a  deeper  tone — 
The  golden  hues  that  JOY  inwove, 
Assume  the  varying  shades  of  LOVE. 

Years  pass  again.     The  mountain  stream 
Still  sings  its  wild,  unconscious  dream  ; 
No  change  hath  visited  the  spot 
Where  stood  of  old  the  rustic  cot. 


148  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

But  o'er  its  roof  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  on  its  walls  the  lizard  sleeps  j 
The  spider  o'er  the  latch  hath  spur* 
A  web  to  whiten  in  the  sun  ; 
The  roses  bloom,  and  fade  away, 
With  none  to  weep  for  their  decay. 
The  very  birds  perceive  the  change, 
And  find  the  solitude  too  strange. 
No  longer  'mid  the  sweet-briar  leaves 
The  swallow  builds  beneath  the  eaves, 
But,  hurrying  from  the  mountain  glen, 
Finds  peace  among  the  haunts  of  men. 

The  mountain  girl  —  a  girl  no  more, 
Sits  down  beside  that  cottage  door  ; 
How  changed  !  the  very  house  has  less 
Of  silent,  saddening  mournfulness. 
In  her  deep,  melancholy  eye, 
Life's  brilliant  hues  no  longer  lie  ; 
And  love  itself,  its  sweetest  light, 
Has  left  behind  a  starless  night. 
A  night  1     Ah  no  !     'T  is  early  dawn  — 
The  long,  dark,  hopeless  hours  are  gone ; 
And  Faith,  the  day-spring  from  on  high, 
Is  beaming  through  her  heavenward  eye. 
Aged  and  widowed,  poor  and  lone, 
She  sits  upon  the  threshold  stone, 
Where  years  before,  in  childish  play, 
She  laughed  the  long,  bright  hours  away. 

What  changes  mark  the  course  of  grief !  - 
That  bud  is  now  a  yellow  leaf, 
Shivering  a  moment  in  the  blast, 
To  fall  and  waste  away  at  last. 
Yet  some  few  hours  of  sunshine  warm 
The  faded  wreck  of  many  a  storm  ; 
Some  few  and  transient  smiles  of  hope 
Enrich  life's  sere  and  downward  slope. 
She  is  once  more  at  home,  where  roved 
Her  girlish  steps  when  first  she  loved  ; 
And  here,  at  last,  her  way-worn  feet 
May  linger  in  their  old  retreat. 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  vine, 
She  planted  for  a  Sabbath  shrine, 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  149 

She  shall  lie  down  to  that  sweet  sleep 
So  welcome  to  the  eyes  that  weep  ; 
While  the  low  wind  and  murmuring  wave 
Sing  constant  requiems  round  her  grave. 
1841. 


THE   WOOD-PATH. 

A  PATH  there  is,  a  sweet  wild  path,  that  steals  through  woodland 

bowers, 

And  all  along  its  verdant  sides  spring  up  soft  smiling  flowers ; 
O,  know  ye  where  that  pleasant  path  hath  hid  its  wealth  of  shade, 
Beneath  what  tall  o'erhanging  trees,  within  what  far-off  glade  ? 

Come,  we  will  go  and  trace  its  way  within  this  fragrant  woods 
Where  solitude  hath  built  a  shrine  for  her  religious  moods  ; 
How  tremblingly  the  golden  light  drops  through  the  parted  boughs ! 
The  very  light  of  all  most  sweet,  to  consecrate  our  vows. 

Come,  lead  thy  thoughts,  nor  let  them  rove  on  life's  forbidden  things ; 
There  's  music  here  beneath  the  leaves,  —  the  fluttering  of  bright 

wings  ; 

There  's  beauty  here,  —  the  verdant  gleams  of  softly-filtered  light, 
And  flowers,  and  moss,  and  tufted  grass,  and  many  a  small,  new 

sight. 

There  's  silence  here,  —  yet  nature  speaks  in  every  soft  low  breath 
That  steals,  a  viewless  spirit,  by,  like  sweet  relieving  death  ; 
And  in  the  murmur  of  the  waves  that  comes  from  far-off  brooks, 
And  in  the  faint,  mysterious  sighs  of  lone  and  shadowy  nooks. 

The  rose-brier  throws  its  slender  boughs  in  arches  by  the  way, 
And  golden  rods,  with  starry  flowers,  yield  many  a  cheerful  ray  ; 
But  something  sweeter,  holier  far,  broods  in  the  solemn  air : 
'Tis  all  unseen,  yet  deeply  felt,  —  the  impulse  of  high  prayer. 

We  cannot  tread  with  careless  hearts  beneath  green,  breathing  trees ; 
There's  something  which  forbids  our  mirth   in  every  murmuring 

breeze  : 

Insensibly  our  spirits  yield  to  spells  we  cannot  see, 
And,  sanctified  by  every  sound,  we  bend  the  prayerful  knee. 

Far  to  a  lone,  soft-gliding  brook  this  grassy  pathway  leads : 
And  even  this,  with  winning  tone,  within  the  spirit  pleads ; 
We  can  but  kneel  upon  its  brink,  and  bathe  the  uplifted  brow, 
And  breathe,  in  low  and  fervent  tones,  some  penitential  vow. 


150  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

O,  hallowed  by  a  thousand  thoughts  is  this  wild,  woodland  path  ; 
A  thousand  dear  memorials  its  very  sunshine  hath  ; 
And  every  shadow  that  around  its  mossy  borders  falls, 
Some  tender  look,  or  soft  sweet  smile,  or  thrilling  tone  recalls. 
1841. 


THE   RECALL. 

"  Is  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  shared, 

the  hours  that  we  have  spent, 

When  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  time, 
For  parting  us,  —  O,  and  is  all  forgot  ?  " 

Midsummer's  Night  Dream. 

HAST  thou  forgotten  that  old  drooping  elm, 

Whose  wavy  boughs  hung  o'er  a  clear,  bright  spring? 
Whose  shade  through  childhood's  hours  we  made  our  realm, 

And  peopled  it  with  every  fairy  thing? 
And  how  the  wind's  low,  melancholy  sigh 

Crept  tremulously  by  1 
How  the  bright  leaves  would  shower  upon  our  heads 

Night's  jewelled  gifts  unto  their  parent  tree* 
And  the  blue  violets,  from  their  mossy  beds, 

Would  lift  their  dewy  eyes  to  smile  on  thee, 
While  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  crystal  spring 

In  their  dark  bells  would  ring  1 
Hast  thou  forgotten  all  ?     The  sweet  wild-rose 

We  borrowed  from  the  verdant  brookside  glen, 
And  with  our  little  hands  and  garden  hoes, 

Planted  it  firmly  in  the  earth  again  ? 
It  has  grown  tall,  and  twines  around  the  door  — 

Would  thou  wert  here  once  more ! 
O  many  a  wreath  of  blossoms  has  it  borne, 

Since  from  thy  childhood's  home  thy  steps  were  turned, 
And  many  a  dewy  jewel  hath  it  worn, 

And  many  a  perfume  in  its  heart  inurned  : 
Would  that  thou,  brother,  in  life's  noonday  hour, 
Wert  pure  as  this  sweet  flower ! 

And  dost  thou  not  remember  the  green  tomb, 

Where  oft  we  wandered  of  a  summer  eve  ? 
Our  mother  slept  beneath  its  daisied  bloom, 

And  there  we  lingered  long  to  pray  and  grieve : 
O  brother,  since,  it  oft  has  been  my  prayer, 
Would  thou  wert  sleeping  there  ! 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  151 

O  would  thou  wert,  indeed,  ere  sin  had  stained 
Thy  youthful  being  with  its  blighting  touch ! 

Far  less  my  faithful  love  had  thus  been  pained, 

Though  I  should  then  have  sorrowed  for  thee  much ; 

But  thus  to  see  thee !  O,  thou  canst  not  know 
The  anguish  of  my  woe ! 

By  all  the  precious  memories  of  the  past, 

By  the  sweet  innocence  of  childhood's  plays, 

By  the  deep  sorrow  o'er  my  being  cast, 
By  all  the  promise  of  thine  earlier  days, 

By  every  tie  that  links  thee  to  thy  home, 
I  conjure  thee  to  come ! 

0  brother,  once  more  back  to  thy  young  haunts, 
Amid  our  streams,  and  founts,  and  favorite  flowers, 

Where  birds  are  flitting,  and  bright  waters  glance 
With  the  same  beauty  as  in  happier  hours, 

1  feel  thou  wilt,  ere  thou  shall  hence  depart, 

Regain  thy  "  young  lamb's  heart." 

Then  come,  thou  erring  one,  yet  still  beloved ! 
Come  to  the  sister  who  so  long  hath  yearned 
To  have  her  tender  faithfulness  thus  proved ; 

To  weep  above  the  wanderer,  home  returned, 
And  lead  him  gently  back  to  God  and  heaven, 

A  penitent  forgiven. 
1841. 


DEVOTIONAL   LOVE. 

A  SOLEMN  joy,  and  deep, 
Most  Holy  Spirit,  is  my  love  of  thee ! 
Whether  it  haunt  me  in  my  hours  of  sleep, 
Or  like  a  passion  o'er  my  spirit  sweep, 

'T  is  a  full  heaven  to  me ! 

It  is  no  restless  thing, 
Forever  trembling  with  a  fear  of  change ; 
It  dwells  within  my  being  like  a  spring 
Of  pure,  sweet  waters,  which  around  it  fling 

Light  ever  rich  and  strange. 

In  the  still  hour  of  night, 
When  the  soul  flutters  with  its  wild,  proud  thought, 


152  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

How  like  a  stream  of  clear  and  solemn  light 
ft  throws  around  it  hues  divinely  bright, 
With  joy  and  peace  inwrought. 

When  warnings  sad  and  low, 
Like  the  soft  murmurs  of  a  buried  stream , 
Through  the  deep  shadows  of  the  spirit  go, 
Thy  love  breathes  sweet  assurances,  that  throw 

"  Joy  through  my  troubled  dream." 

The  world  has  many  a  chill 
To  breathe  upon  a  young  and  timid  heart ; 
And  earthly  loves  grow  dim,  and  scarce  fulfil 
The  promise  of  their  dawn  ;  but  faithful  still, 

And  ever  kind  THOU  art ! 

Let  me  still  love  and  trust, 
O  thou  most  gracious  and  forever  true ! 
Love  thee  and  cling  to  thee  my  spirit  must, 
Till  it  but  throw  aside  its  weary  dust, 

To  live  and  love  anew. 
1841. 


TO   A   STAR. 

SWEET  island  in  a  hollow  sea, 

What  spirits  walk  thy  shore  1 
What  close  embosomed  mystery 
Gives  soul  and  beauty  unto  thee, 

Ne'er  seen  and  felt  before  1 
What  secrets  in  thy  being  live, 

Never  to  mortals  known  ? 
What  bright  revealments  canst  thou  give 

Of  human  being  gone  ? 

O  tell  us,  floating  gem  of  even, 

Where  do  thy  wanderings  lead  1 
Say,  is  to  thee  the  mission  given 
To  walk  the  unseen  shores  of  heaven, 

And  there  thine  urns  to  feed 
With  the  pure  light  that  angel  wings 

Shed  on  the  dreamy  air, 
And  bathe  thy  rays  in  those  soft  springs 

That  gush  forever  there1? 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  153 

Art  thou  a  world,  thou  fairy  light, 

Slow  moving  through  the  sky  ? 
A  world  so  radiantly  dight, 
That  heaven  can  scarcely  be  more  bright 

Unto  an  angel's  eye? 
Art  thou  a  world?    What  spirits  walk 

Amid  thy  beauteous  flowers  ? 
In  what  sweet  language  do  they  talk  ? 

Is  it  as  soft  as  ours  1 

O  tell  us,  do  they  talk  of  love, 

And  have  they  gentle  hearts  ? 
Do  they  forever  faithful  prove 
To  souls  with  which  they  're  interwove,  — 

Souls  to  which  love  imparts 
So  pure  a  glow,  so  full  of  bliss, 

That  heaven  hath  naught  more  sweet  ? 
O,  hast  thou  aught  for  us  like  this, 

Within  thy  bowers  to  meet  ? 

Does  sin  —  O  answer  us,  thou  star !  — 

Does  sin  thy  sons  o'ershade  ? 
Are  they  as  earthly  beings  are  ? 
Do  fearful  crimes  and  passions  mar 

All  mortals  God  has  made? 
Speak,  burning  world  !  hast  thou  been  trod 

By  footsteps  all  divine  ? 
And  offered  to  the  Son  of  God 

A  mountain  bed  and  shrine? 

To  shade  his  eyes,  with  woe  grown  dim, 

Hast  reared  the  jagged  thorn  ? 
Or  furnished  forth  a  cross  for  Him, 
And  tortured  every  quivering  limb, 

And  soothed  his  pains  with  scorn? 
O  tell  us,  tell  us,  has  his  blood 

Hallowed  thy  radiant  flowers  ? 
His  prayers,  outpoured  in  solitude, 

Made  consecrate  thy  bowers  ? 

No  answer  from  thy  light  we  wring, 

No  token  thence  we  wile ; 
Idle  is  all  our  questioning  : 
Enough  for  us  our  faith  to  bring, 

And  lay  it  in  thy  smile ; 


154  POETICAL    SELECTIONS. 

Enough  to  gaze  upon  thee  there, 
In  the  soft  blue  of  even  ; 

For  while  we  gaze,  a  trustful  prayer 

Bears  up  our  hearts  to  Heaven. 
1841. 


THOU'RT  LIKE   THY  MOTHER,   CHILD. 

THOU  'RT  like  thy  mother,  fair  and  gentle  child ; 

Her  beauty  is  revealed  upon  thy  cheek  : 
Thine  eye  is  hers  ;  it  is  as  soft  and  mild, 

And  at  the  touch  of  grief  as  sadly  meek  ; 
Ay,  thou  'rt  like  her,  child. 

The  same  soft,  curly  tresses  shade  thy  brow, 
And  on  thy  lips  rests  the  same  merry  smile  ; 

As  glad  a  laugh,  as  arch  a  glance  hast  thou, 
A  voice  as  musical  to  soothe  or  wile  ; 
Thou  'rt  very  like  her,  child. 

The  blush  will  steal  as  freely  and  as  bright 
To  thy  fair  cheek,  at  coarse  or  hasty  words, 

And  gentle  tones  will  yield  as  sweet  delight 
To  her  or  thy  heart  as  the  songs  of  birds  ; 
Indeed,  thou  'rt  like  her,  child. 

But  more  in  spirit  than  in  looks,  my  child  ; 

Thou  hast  her  gentleness,  her  deep,  true  love, 
Her  tender  sadness,  mournful  and  yet  mild, 

The  very  spirit  of  a  turtle  dove  : 

I  'm  glad  thou  'rt  like  her,  child. 

Thou  hast  the  promise  of  her  eloquence, 
Her  ardent  temper,  gentle  and  yet  warm, 

Her  love  of  beauty,  and  exquisite  sense 
Or  hidden  intellect  in  every  form  ; 
Thou  art  all  like  her,  child. 

When  pain  and  wretchedness  are  met  by  thee, 
Thou  art  as  eager  to  relieve  and  bless  ; 

And  not  a  wounded  floweret  canst  thou  see, 
But  thou  wilt  stoop  to  it  with  soft  caress  ; 
In  this  thou  'rt  like  her,  child. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  155 

Thou  hast  my  deep  and  never-faltering  love, 
My  sleepless  and  forever  trembling  care  ; 

I  ask  for  thee  rich  blessings  from  above, 

And  plead  thy  wants  in  many  a  fervent  prayer  : 
Here  art  thou  like  her,  child. 

And  wilt  thou  ever  be,  as  she  has  been, 

Faithful  and  tender  to  my  trustful  love  1 
And  wilt  thou  turn  aside  from  pride  and  sin, 
And  lift  thy  spirit  undefiled  above? 

Be  like  her  HERE,  my  child ! 
1841. 


LOVE    AT  THE   GRAVE. 

DUST  !  dust !  why  wildly  clings 

My  heart  to  thee  ?     The  things 
Of  earth  should  not  be  made  our  gods  : 
We  lay  them  all  beneath  the  valley-clods, 

The  soul,  alone,  hath  wings. 

Thine  eye,  that  oft  hath  gazed 

Fondly  on  me,  is  glazed 
And  cold  ;  no  love  beams  longer  there  ; 
And  mould  is  creeping  o'er  thy  golden  hair ; 

But  thou,  O  thou,  art  raised ! 

Why  should  I  vainly  weep, 

Where  the  green  mosses  creep 
Above  the  ruins  of  a  beauteous  shrine  ? 
The  sweet  divinity  I  dared  call  mine 

Does  not  beneath  them  sleep. 

Why  do  I  haunt  this  spot, 

Where,  by  the  world  forgot, 
Ashes  are  sleeping,  whence  the  fire  and  light 
Long  since  have  fled,  and  left  but  dust  and  blight 

Beneath  the  flowery  plot  ? 

Why  on  this  fresh,  bright  sod, 

Where  foot  hath  never  trod,  — 
Save  it  be  angel-footsteps,  tending  flowers,  — 
Have  I  so  humbly  knelt,  through  long,  sad  hours, 

And  wildly  called  on  God  ? 


156  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

O  for  a  faith  more  sure, 
O  for  a  hope  more  pure, 

To  lift  my  spirit-longings  unto  heaven  ! 

For  to  the  soul  on  earth,  no  love  is  given, 
Unsullied  to  endure. 

Love's  home  is  not  below  ; 

It  journeyeth  with  woe, 
But  bids  it,  at  the  grave,  a  last  farewell : 
In  heaven,  alone,  it  finds  a  place  to  dwell 

Untroubled  by  a  foe. 

O  Father,  lift  mine  eyes 
To  thy  bright,  glorious  skies, 
Where  nothing  fades,  nor  passes  to  decay : 
Woo  me  by  smiles  of  love,  gently  away 

To  thy  pure  Paradise. 
1841. 


THE   WOODLAND   RETREAT. 

COME,  gentle  love,  to  the  shady  wood, 

While  the  noon  hours  pass  away  ; 
Our  spirits  will  here  be  bright  and  good 

Through  the  glare  of  the  summer  day. 
We  will  hunt  the  mosses  and  sedgy  knolls, 

For  the  tiniest  buds  and  flowers, 
And  sweetly  and  purely  we  '11  blend  our  souls 

Through  the  languor  of  dreamy  hours. 

The  bee  is  here  with  his  mellow  hum, 

A  wild  and  a  drowsy  sound  ; 
He  has  muffled  his  head  in  a  foxglove  thumb, 

And  weighed  himself  to  the  ground. 
And  all  about  in  the  swinging  bells 

The  murmurs  are  lurking  low, 
Like  the  solemn  softness  of  fairy  knells, 

A  blending  of  joy  and  woe. 

The  birds  are  flitting  from  tree  to  tree, 
The  sunbeams  from  flower  to  flower : 

O  where  can  the  spirit  of  sorrow  be 
In  so  tranquil  and  sweet  an  hour? 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  157 

No  shadows  are  here  but  the  softened  fall 

Of  the  sunshine  through  the  leaves : 
'T  is  a  holy  haunt,  so  quiet  all, 

To  a  bosom  that  inly  grieves. 

The  music  that  hovers  unseen  above 

In  the  boughs  of  the  waving  trees, 
Like  the  gentle  voice  of  a  friend  we  love, 

Subdues  us  by  calm  degrees. 
The  presence  of  love  is  with  us  here 

In  the  music  and  softened  light ; 
In  all  that  is  bright,  and  sweet,  and  clear, 

Lies  the  spell  of  its  glorious  might. 

In  the  voice  of  the  wild-bird  that  wanders  by, 

There 's  a  message  from  God  to  all ; 
For  he  talks  to  his  children  beneath  the  sky 

Through  oracles  weak  and  small. 
And  the  daisy  that  lifteth  its  gentle  head 

From  the  grassy  bed  of  its  birth, 
Wears  the  same  sweet  smile  that  our  God  hath  spread 

Abroad  o'er  the  glorious  earth. 

Then  come,  my  love,  to  the  shady  wood ; 

It  is  good  to  worship  apart 
From  the  crowded  world,  and  in  solemn  mood 

Commune  with  an  humbled  heart. 
The  spirit  is  purer  and  better  far, 

For  its  moments  of  silent  prayer ; 
Its  light  grows  clearer,  like  some  dim  star 

When  seen  through  the  midnight  air. 
1841. 


STANZAS   ON  THE   DEATH   OF  MRS.  J.  H.  SCOTT. 

"  Sister,  my  soul's  loved  sister, 
I  have  bidden  thee  farewell !" 

Mrs.  Scott. 

ALL  things  do  call  for  thee  ! 

I  hear  low  breathings  'mid  the  bright  spring-roses, 
And  tolling  murmurs  from  the  harebells  blue  ; 
And  where  the  violet  on  the  turf  reposes, 
Filling  its  urn-cup  with  the  sparkling  dew, 
A  soft  lament,  a  wild  and  sweet  deploring 
14 


158  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

Calls  for  thy  presence  here  amid  the  flowers,  — 
The  early  flowers,  o'er  which  thy  heart,  adoring, 
Poured  forth  its  gladness  in  thy  brighter  hours  — * 
All  these  do  call  for  thee  ! 

And  more  than  these  —  ay,  more  ! 
Hearts  that  were  linked  to  thine  by  strong  affection, 
Thy  child's  young  voice  in  many  a  mournful  cry, 
They  who  have  named  thee,  by  the  soul's  election, 
The  brightest  star  that  shone  along  our  sky  — 
These  call  for  thee  in  tones  of  thrilling  sadness, 
They  woo  thee  back  by  many  a  burning  tear  — 
Oh  !  'midst  the  music  of  thy  heart's  deep  gladness, 
Canst  thou  in  heaven  their  wild  complainings  hear, 

Thou,  who  art  past  all  grief? 

Thou  wert  a  priestess  here  ; 
In  nature's  temple,  by  her  flower- wreathed  altar, 
Long  hast  thou  ministered  with  gifts  divine  ; 
Thy  heart  hath  been  thy  prayer-book  and  thy  psalter, 
And  every  lone  bright  spot  a  sacred  shrine. 
Thy  hymns  —  Oh  were  they  not,  'mid  glen  and  mountain, 
Called  from  thy  heart  by  some  resistless  power  ? 
Blinding  the  music  of  the  wild-wood  fountain 
With  the  pure  sweetness  of  the  summer  flower? 

Were  they  not,  dearest  friend  ? 

Deep  sank  their  fervent  tones  — 
Deep  in  our  heart  of  hearts  their  praise  descended, 
And  stirred  up  burning  thoughts  and  holy  love ; 
For  in  their  rich,  impassioned  strains  were  blended 
A  zeal  and  beauty  sent  thee  from  above. 
No  more  to  us  shall  those  sweet  strains  be  chanted  — 
Hushed  is  thy  voice  beside  life's  flowing  stream  — 
Thou,  who  so  long  for  clearer  waters  panted, 
Hast  found  at  last  the  beauty  of  thy  dream  — 

The  bright,  eternal  Fount  ? 

*  Her  love  of  flowers  was  no  unreal  sentiment.  In  one  of  her  letters  she 
promised  to  send  me  a  poem  for  every  species  of  rare  seed,  or  slip  of  plant  I 
could  find  means  to  forward  to  her.  Among  the  beautiful  varieties  of  shrubs, 
vines,  and  flowers,  with  which  her  yard  was  literally  filled,  she  showed  me 
some  wild  clematis  vines  she  had  raised  from  seed  I  had  gathered  for  her  on 
the  banks  of  Bow-Brook.  "  I  do  so  love  the  sweet  flowers,"  she  said,  "  I  am 
a  perfect  child  about  them." 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  159 

We  would  not  call  thee  thence  — 
We  would  not,  bright  one,  though  a  dimness  lieth 
Along  those  pathways  where  thy  smile  hath  shone  — 
For  thou  art  now  where  beauty  never  dieth, 
And  shadows  on  the  heart  are  never  strown. 
Not  all  of  thee,  sweet  friend,  from  earth  hath  perished, 
Our  hearts  still  keep  thee,  still  they  love  thee  well — 
There  are  thy  songs  and  gentle  teachings  cherished, 
There  shall  the  memory  of  thy  goodness  dwell  — 

For  good  thou  wert,  and  true  ! 
1842. 


A  PRAYER  AT  NIGHT. 

THOSE  lone,  bright  spheres  !     How  beautiful  their  light 

In  the  wide  solitude  of  space  !     How  far 
O'er  reefy  shore,  and  bold  Norwegian  height, 
And  tropic  desert,  will  one  small,  faint  star 
Its  cheering  radiance  throw  ! 
And  they  who  toil  below  — 
The  weary  voyager  on  the  trackless  sea, 
The  pilgrim  thrown  beneath  the  wayside  tree, 

O'erworn  with  care  and  pain  ; 
O  shall  not  these  take  heart  of  grace  again, 
And  struggle  on  through  all  the  awful  night, 
Cheered  by  that  small,  sweet  light? 

Grant  me,  O  God,  a  high,  soft  star  to  be  ! 

Calm,  still,  and  bright,  to  trace  my  way  in  heaven, 
And  shed  my  light  o'er  life's  tempestuous  sea, 

Where  human  hearts,  like  fragile  barks,  are  driven 
'Mid  rocks  and  hidden  shoals. 
A  soul  'mid  glorious  souls  — 
A  small,  pure  star  within  the  glittering  band 
That  high  above  the  clouds,  undimmed  and  grand, 

In  placid  beauty  rolls, 
To  herald  on  the  weary  to  the  land 
Where  all  is  rest  and  peace  ;  to  guide  the  way 

To  heaven's  unclouded  day ! 
1842. 


160  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

FILIAL  LOVE. 

"  HERK  is  a  wild  stream  moaning  through  the  grass  — 
Let  us  sit  down,  dear  Ada,  for  the  beams 
Of  the  rich  noontide  have  o'erwearied  thee  ; 
Throw  back  thy  sunny  curls,  that  the  soft  breeze 
May  kiss  thy  blushing  cheeks,  —  those  pure  young  cheeks 
Where  feeling  plays  at  every  touch  of  thought, 
And  the  young  rose-bud  sees  a  rival  hue 
More  fleeting  than  its  own.     How  very  like 
Thy  mother  art  thou,  Ada,  when  she  walked 
This  same  wild  path  with  me  long  years  ago  !" 

"  O,  am  1  like  her,  father  ?     I  am  glad, 
For  she  was  kind  and  tender,  and  I  know 
How  much  the  wretched  loved  her,  for  they  come 
Even  now  around  her  tomb,  and  wreathe  the  urn 
With  hedgerow  flowers ;  and,  when  I  pass  their  doors, 
Exclaim,  '  God  bless  thee  for  thy  mother's  sake  !' 
Now  while  we  rest  us  here,  and  the  long  boughs 
Of  the  wild  locust  shade  us  from  the  sun, 
I  pray  thee,  father,  tell  me  of  those  days 
When  life  was  new  to  her,  and  how  she  learned 
Those  tender  ministries  of  good,  which  made 
Her  name  a  passport  to  the  coldest  heart, 
And  all  her  life  one  soft,  still-gliding  stream 
Of  truth  and  beauty,  that  I,  too,  may  learn 
To  make  my  being  felt  among  the  poor." 

"  Her  history  is  one  that  suits  this  quiet  spot, 
For  it  is  simple  as  the  murmuring  song 
Of  this  wild  rill.     I  loved  her,  Ada,  when 
I  was  a  boy,  and  oft  would  woo  her  forth 
Among  these  old,  ancestral  trees,  to  read 
Sweet  lays  to  me,  while  I  would  cast  my  line 
Along  the  stream.     The  spotted  trout  would  come, 
Unscared  by  the  low  sweetness  of  her  tones, 
And  when  the  brilliant  prey  was  mine,  the  tear 
Would  gather  quickly  in  her  dark  blue  eye, 
Yet  she  would  smile,  scarce  knowing  which  to  choose, 
My  pleasure,  or  the  life  of  the  poor  fish  ; 
No  creature  crossed  her  path  that  was  not  blest 
By  some  kind  word  or  gentle  providence. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  161 

The  worm,  that  ventured  forth  to  meet  the  beams 

Of  the  mild  sun,  was  spared  by  her  young  foot 

Even  in  its  gayest  sport  ;  and  when,  at  dawn, 

Her  wakeful  spirit  led  her  to  the  woods, 

And  'mid  the  thickets  she  espied  the  snare 

In  which  the  unwary  rabbit  had  been  caught, 

With  active  zeal  her  little  hand  would  break 

The  cord,  and  set  the  prisoner  free  ;  nor  dare 

The  baffled  gamester  cast  an  angry  glance 

On  her  bright,  smiling,  love-illumined  face. 

In  winter,  at  any  early  hour,  the  birds 

Would  call  her  from  her  rest,  for  they  had  learned 

To  wait  on  her  for  food,  nor  wait  in  vain.* 

Such,  gentle  daughter,  was  thy  mother  then, 

In  her  unfolding  youth  ;  and  as  she  grew 

In  grace  and  knowledge,  she  enlarged  the  sphere 

Of  her  benevolence,  till  it  embraced 

All  living  things  ;  and  this  sad  world 

Seemed  to  her  angel  heart  a  field  for  toil 

In  binding  up  the  broken  reed,  and  giving  strength 

To  those  who  faltered  by  the  way.     To  me,  — 

O  Ada,  thy  young  heart  can  little  guess 

The  joy  her  presence  gave.     When  I  was  sad, 

No  voice  so  sweet  as  hers,  no  eye  so  soft ; 

And  when  the  heavy  hand  of  pain  o'ercame 

The  efforts  of  my  mind,  her  gentle  touch 

And  soft  religious  words  were  more  than  health 

To  my  adoring  heart.     Her  spiritual  light 

Was  clearer  than  mine  own,  and  when  I  erred, 

Without  one  mild  reproach,  she  led  me  back 

By  her  own  beautiful  thoughts  to  the  pure  way 

Of  piety  and  love.  —  Ada,  she  died  ! 

And  but  for  thee,  I  should  have  followed  her. 

But  when  thine  infant  eye  looked  pleadingly 

To  mine,  and  no  soft,  tender  voice  was  left 

To  hush  thy  feeble  wail,  I  wrapt  the  shroud 

Of  this  world  closer  round  me,  and  remained  — 

For  thee  !  —  I  have  been  well  repaid  ; 

*  I  have  known  the  jays  in  winter,  soon  after  sunrise,  to  perch  upon  the 
trees  which  surround  the  house  from  which  they  were  accustomed  to  receive 
daily  food,  and  call  loudly  and  impatiently  for  the  appearance  of  those  who 
kindly  ministered  to  their  wants. 

14*- 


162  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

To  see  thy  features  day  by  day  assume 

The  look  thy  mother's  wore,  —  to  hear  her  voice 

In  the  clear  cadences  of  thy  gay  laugh, 

And,  more  than  all,  to  trace  the  tender  moods 

Of  her  sweet  soul  in  thine  ;  —  O,  Ada  dear, 

I  thought  all  joy  was  buried  in  the  grave 

With  her  who  gave  thee  birth,  but  this  has  been 

A  fountain  of  unceasing  love  and  hope, 

A  wellspring  in  the  desert  of  this  world 

Where  I  have  drank  and  lived  !" 

"0  let  me  wipe 

The  tears  from  thy  too  mournful  eyes,  and  make 
Thee  happy,  dearest  father,  by  my  love. 
I  will  repay  thee  by  the  earnest  truth 
Of  a  confiding  heart ;  by  kindly  deeds 
To  those  who  mourn  ;  by  patient  love  and  hope, 
For  those  who  go  astray  from  the  high  path 
Of  duty  ;  by  a  gentle  watch  o'er  thee 
When  thou  art  sick  and  weary  ;  and  by  still 
And  secret  chastening  of  my  own  wild  heart 
In  the  dear  presence  of  my  God.     Thine  eye 
Smiles  on  me  while  I  promise  —  'tis  enough  — 
I  know  the  shade  of  her  who  loves  us,  droops 
Around  us  in  this  holy  hour,  and  seals 
My  vow,  and  bears  it  up  to  heaven." 
1842. 


MY  FATHER. 

I  SEE  him  coming  up  the  hill, 

With  tottering  step  and  slow  ; 
Alas  !  his  nerves  no  longer  thrill 

With  youth's  exciting  glow  ; 
And  look  !  he  leans  upon  his  cane, 
As  though  the  effort  gave  him  pain. 

The  dear  old  man  !     How  age  hath  dimmed 

The  lustre  of  his  eye  ; 
But  nobly  he  the  tide  hath  stemmed, 

And  now  is  ripe  to  die  ; 
For  wrong  and  sorrow  have  not  bowed 
A  spirit  that  was  never  proud. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

His  locks,  once  dark,  are  silvery  gray, 
And  scattered  o'er  his  brow  ; 

His  cheeks,  where  sunshine  used  to  play, 
Are  worn  and  furrowed  now  ; 

And  when  he  turns  to  me  to  speak, 

His  tones  come  tremulous  and  weak. 

But  still  the  same  kind  words  of  love 
Address  his  daughter's  ear  ; 

His  heart,  as  simple  as  a  dove, 
Is  full  of  kindly  cheer  ; 

And  when  he  laughs,  it  does  me  good 

To  see  his  free  and  merry  mood. 

Dear  father  !     May  I  ever  prove 

A  gentle  child  to  thee, 
And  pay  thee  back  the  faithful  love 

That  thou  hast  showered  on  me  ; 
For  it  would  break  my  heart  to  know 
I  e'er  had  caused  thee  shame  or  woe. 

And  if  around  thy  grave  some  day 
With  saddened  heart  I  stroll, 

God  grant  I  may  not  turn  away 
With  shame  upon  my  soul ; 

But  looking  up  to  heaven,  may  feel 

From  thee  I  've  nothing  to  conceal. 
1842. 


SOCIAL  DESIRES. 

I  LOVE  not  on  a  little  flower  to  look, 

Casting  its  shadow  on  the  singing  brook, 

If  from  its  soft  blue  eye  I  may  not  turn 

To  eyes  where  soul  breathes  out,  as  from  an  urn. 

I  love  not  in  some  wild  and  lonely  shade, 
To  watch  the  dashing  of  a  clear  cascade, 
If  at  my  side,  no  spirit,  clad  in  white, 
Sing  a  low  echo  to  my  deep  delight. 

I  love  not  in  some  mossy  nook  of  green, 
Where  sweet  wild  roses  weave  a  fragrant  screen, 
To  bend  my  knee  and  lift  my  simple  prayer, 
Unless  a  heart  to  pray  for,  meet  me  there. 


164  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

I  love  not  even  the  poet's  full-souled  words, 
Sweeter  and  purer  than  the  songs  of  birds, 
If  no  true  kindred  heart  beat  time  to  mine, 
And  echo  back  the  music  of  each  line. 

I  love  all  holy  things  that  God  has  made, 
But  none,  unshared,  of  sunshine  or  of  shade  ; 
And  from  the  wreath  of  joy  my  faith  hath  wove, 
I  would  pluck  out  a  rose  for  each  I  love. 
1843. 


THE  MISSION  OF  CHRIST. 

OH,  yes !  there  is  joy  in  sincerely  believing, 

No  heart  that  is  faithless  can  dream  of,  or  know  ; 
There  is  strength  in  the  thought  that  our  souls  are  receiving 

Such  wealth  as  a  Father  alone  can  bestow. 
Then  away  with  the  dogma  that  sin  is  eternal ! 

It  dims  the  bright  glow  of  Immanuel's  name  ; 
For  it  was  not  to  build  up  a  kingdom  infernal 

That  Jesus,  the  Friend  of  the  sorrowful,  came. 

It  was  not  to  lay  in  the  path  of  the  blinded 

High  walls  over  which  they  must  stumble  and  fall, 
That  He  came,  all  sublime  and  serene,  and  high-minded, 

And  laid  down  his  life  —  a  redemption  for  all ! 
It  was  not  to  slaughter,  in  anger  and  blindness, 

The  wandering  lambs  that  were  dying  of  cold, 
That  he  lifted  them  up  to  his  bosom  in  kindness, 

And  brought  them  all  home  to  their  rest  in  the  fold. 

He  is  good,  —  and  the  heart  that  serenely  reposes 
And  lays  down  its  burthens  to  rest  in  his  love, 
Will  find  that  the  door  of  salvation  ne'er  closes 

So  long  as  one  sinner  continues  to  rove. 
He  loves  the  young  lambs,  though  afar  they  are  straying, 

He  seeks  out  the  weary  with  tender  concern  ; 
Oh  hear  his  soft  voice  in  the  wilderness  praying, 

"  To  the  arms  of  your  Saviour,  poor  lost  ones,  return!" 
1843. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  165 


REVERIES. 

THEY  come !  the  visions  of  the  Past  arise, 

A  crowd  of  mingling  shadows  bright  and  fair  ! 
There  stands  the  bride  with  the  resplendent  eyes  — 

There  sits  the  maiden  with  the  golden  hair ! 

Vainly,  O  vainly  do  I  strive  to  tear 
My  soul  away  from  these  bewildering  dreams ; 

They  crowd  with  glory  all  the  twilight  air,  — 
I  see  their  faces  mirrored  in  the  streams, 
And  meet  their  gentle  smiles  in  every  star  that  beams ! 

Now  float  the  orange  wreath  and  bridal  veil 

Around  a  brow  with  youthful  beauty  bright ; 
And  now  that  brow,  serenely  fair  and  pale, 

Lies  in  the  shadow  of  eternal  night. 

A  rounded  arm,  —  a  hand  of  dazzling  white, — 
A  laughing  eye  of  deep  and  changeful  blue  — 

These  come,  like  gleams  of  sunshine,  to  my  sight, 
In  every  winning  guise  and  radiant  hue, 
The  visions  of  the  Loved,  the  Beautiful,  the  True! 

I  hear  a  laugh,  like  music  in  the- wood ; 

A  wild  clear  gush  of  rich  and  happy  thought ; 
It  comes  from  one  whose  heart  was  kind  and  good, 

With  every  gentle  charity  inwrought. 

No  drooping  soul  her  sympathy  e'er  sought 
That  she  did  bless  not  with  a  pitying  tear ; 

And  even  Despair  in  her  bright  presence  caught 
Some  gleam  of  faith  his  gloomy  brow  to  cheer, 
Some  faint,  yet  precious,  hope  that  Mercy  might  be  near. 

Before  me  rise  soft  glades  of  verdant  grass, 

And  dewy  glens,  o'ercanopied  with  vines ; 
Bright  murmuring  streams  and  founts  before  me  pass, 

With  flower-wreathed  altars,  and  lone  woodland  shrines. 

My  soul  to  Memory  every  power  resigns, 
And  leaves  me  wandering  through  her  magic  halls  ; 

Now  by  some  olden  haunt  my  heart  reclines, 
Now  turns  aside  where  some  wild  streamlet  falls, 
Or  in  the  graveyard  stands,  lifting  its  shadowy  palls ! 

'Mid  mountain  passes,  beautiful  and  wild, 

Where  beard-like  mosses  load  the  giant  trees, 


166  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

I  wander  with  a  wayward  dark-eyed  child 
Of  love  and  song,  as  fearless  as  the  breeze ! 
With  her  I  catch  the  murmuring  of  the  bees, 

The  songs  of  birds  around  the  brawny  cliff; 
With  her  I  watch  the  sunlight  on  the  leas, 

Or  by  the  cedar  branches,  firm  and  stiff, 

Descend  the  rugged  height,  and  launch  the  floating  skiff. 

Clear  lies  the  stream  beneath  the  summer  sky, 

With  little  islands  on  its  breast  asleep  ; 
Above  its  waves  our  fairy  bark  floats  high, 

Or  slowly  winds  beneath  some  frowning  steep, 

Across  whose  brow  the  glossy  woodbines  creep. 
Now  by  the  slant  old  tree  we  moor  our  boat, 

And  in  the  bosom  of  its  shadows  deep, 
Listen,  with  dreamy  spirits,  to  the  note 
That  swells  with  thrilling  gush  the  oriole's  golden  throat. 

Oh  Memory,  thou  wakener  of  the  Dead  ! 

Thou  only  treasurer  of  the  vanished  Past ! 
How  welcome  art  thou  when  bright  Hope  is  fled, 

And  Sorrow's  mantle  o'er  the  soul  is  cast ! 

Back  o'er  those  days,  too  beautiful  to  last, 
Thy  gentle  hand  will  lead  the  saddened  thought ; 

And  though  the  tears  may  trickle  warm  and  fast. 
Yet  thy  sweet  pictures  with  such  peace  are  fraught, 
The  heart  beguiled,  exclaims,  '  This  is  the  fount  I  sought !' 
1843. 


THE  REDEEMED. 

THY  praise  was  on  the  lips  of  men  — 

They  called  thee  good  and  great ; 
And  oh  !  my  heart  with  gladness,  then, 

And  triumph  was  elate. 
To  see  thee  move  a  chief  'mid  those 

Who  feel  the  spell  of  worth, 
To  track  thy  footsteps  as  they  rose 

Above  the  sons  of  earth, — 
Oh  this  was  joy  and  happy  pride  — 

A  glimpse  of  life  divine  — 
For  truer  heart  was  ne'er  allied 

To  thee,  dear  friend,  than  mine. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  167 

Then  came  the  dark  and  desolate  day 

Of  sin,  and  woe,  and  shame ; 
And  all  along  thy  pathway  lay 

The  lava's  lurid  flame. 
No  longer  sought  thy  hands  the  grasp 

Of  hearty  love  and  pride ; 
They  met  thee  with  a  chilling  clasp, 

Or  coldly  turned  aside. 
And  I,  oh !  bitterly  indeed, 

I  wept  thy  shameful  fall ;  — 
But  yet  my  heart  did  not  recede  — 

T  loved  thee  through  it  all ! 

I  loved  thee ;  and  I  trusted  still 

That  thou  wouldst  yet  redeem 
By  thy  strong,  earnest,  moral  will, 

Thy  soul  from  death's  dark  stream. 
I  trusted  that  temptation's  sway, 

O'er  spirit  high  as  thine, 
Like  some  hot  plague  would  pass  away, 

And  leave  thee  at  God's  shrine. 
I  trusted  that  the  giant  strength 

Of  virtue  in  thy  soul, 
Would  break  the  withs  of  sin  at  length, 

And  rise  from  its  control. 

Oh,  thanks  to  God  !    'T  was  not  in  vain 

I  nerved  my  heart  with  faith, 
For  thou  art  all  thyself  again, 

Redeemed  from  shame  and  death. 
Thy  hand  with  dauntless  nerve  hath  set 

The  seal  upon  thy  vow, 
And  now  I  know  when  thou  'rt  beset, 

Thy  virtue  will  not  bow. 
Oh  joy !    Let  angels  catch  the  strain, 

And  fill  the  courts  above, 
To  welcome  back  to  heaven  again 

The  prodigal  they  love. 

Oh  joy  !    A  thousand  erring  souls 

Are  stronger  than  before  ! 
And  fiercely  though  temptation  rolls, 

Will  safely  reach  the  shore. 


168  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

When  thou  wert  chief  among  the  men 

Who  walk  in  wisdom's  way,  • 
Most  excellent  I  thought  thee  then, 

And  glorified  thy  sway. 
But  oh !  to  see  thee  spurn  the  tide 

Of  sin.  and  death,  and  shame, 
And  prove  to  those  who  sink,  a  guide 

To  honor  and  good  fame ! 

To  see  thee  hold  out  hope  to  those 

Who,  faint,  and  weak,  and  worn. 
Dread  to  perceive  the  dark  waves  close 

And  hide  the  glimmering  bourne ; 
Oh,  friend,  I  tell  thee  ne'er  hath  yet 

My  heart  felt  such  a  tide, 
As  that  which  now  o'ermantles  it 

With  gratitude  and  pride. . 
Joy,  joy !    Oh,  ever  may  my  soul 

Increase  His  bright  renown, 
Who  helped  thee  reach  the  lofty  goal, 

And  win  the  VICTOR'S  CROWN  ! 
1843. 


THE  LAST  LAY. 

'T  is  the  last  touch  —  the  last !  and  never  more 

By  the  low-singing  stream,  or  violet  dell, 
Never  beside  the  blue  pond's  grassy  shore, 

Nor  in  the  woodlands  where  the  fountains  swell, 
O,  never  more  shall  this  wild  harp  resound 

To  the  light  touches  of  impulsive  thought ! 
No  longer,  echoed  on  the  winds  around, 

Shall  float  those  strains  with  human  passion  fraught ; 
Never,  O,  never  more  ! 

'T  is  the  last  touch  !     O,  mighty  Thought,  return 

To  thy  deep,  hidden  fountains,  and  draw  thence 
Words  that  through  all  the  heart's  lone  depths  shall  burn 

Words,  that  inwrought  with  hope  and  love  intense, 
Shall  thrill  and  shake  the  soul,  as  God's  own  voice 

Shakes  the  high  heavens,  and  thrills  the  silent  earth  ! 
Bring  forth  proud  words  of  triumph,  and  rejoice 

That  thy  dear  gift  of  song  a  holier  birth 

Shall  find,  when  this  is  o'er ! 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  169 

Too  much  in  earlier  days,  departing  soul, 

Thy  song  harth  been  of  weakness  and  of  tears  ; 
Too  much  it  yielded  to  the  wild  control 

Of  love's  unuttered  dreams  and  shadowy  fears  ; 
And  yet  some  strains  of  triumph  have  been  heard, 

Some  words  of  faith  and  hope  that  reached  high  heaven  ; 
As  the  low  warble  of  the  summer  bird, 

Singing  away  the  hours  of  golden  even, 

Blends  with  the  cascade's  roar  ! 

Let  it  be  loftier  now  !  a  strain  to  cleave 

The  vaulted  arch  above  ;  a  hymn  of  hope, 
Of  joy,  of  deathless  faith,  for  those  who  grieve  ; 

High  words  of  trust  to  fearful  hearts  that  grope 
Through  clouds  and  darkness  to  a  midnight  tomb  ! 

Father  of  Love,  thine  energy  impart 
To  a  frail  spirit  hovering  o'er  its  doom  ! 

Nerve  with  o'ermastering  faith  this  weary  heart 
Thy  mysteries  to  explore  ! 

If  I  have  suffered  in  the  mournful  past, 

If  withered  hopes  were  on  my  spirit  laid, 
If  love,  the  beautiful,  the  bright,  were  cast 

Along  my  pathway  but  to  droop  and  fade,  — 
If  the  chill  shadows  of  the  grave,  were  hung 

In  life's  young  morning  o'er  my  sunny  way, 
I  thank  thee,  O,  my  God,  that  I  have  clung 

To  those  eternal  things  that  ne'er  decay, 

E'en  to  thy  love  and  truth  ! 

Now  on  the  threshold  of  the  grave  I  stand. 

One  lingering  look  alone  cast  back  to  earth  ; 
One  lingering  look  to  that  beloved  land 

Where  human  feeling  had  its  tearful  birth  ; 
There  stand  the  loved,  with  earnest  eyes  and  words, 

Calling  me  back  to  life's  sweet  gushing  streams  ; 
They  stand  amid  the  flowers  and  singing  birds, 

And  where  the  fountain  o'er  the  bright  moss  gleams, 
All  flushed  with  buoyant  youth  ! 

They  woo  me  back.     I  see  their  soft  eyes  melt 
With  a  beseeching  love  that  speaks  in  tears  ; 

Deeply  their  sorrowing  kindness  have  I  felt, 

And  hid  my  pangs,  that  I  might  soothe  their  fears. 
15 


170  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

But  now  the  seal  is  set  —  they  cannot  save  ; 

In  vain  they  hover  round  this  wasting  frame  ; 
Let  me  rest,  loved  ones,  in  the  peaceful  grave, 

And  leave  to  earth  the  little  it  may  claim  ; 
It  cannot  claim  the  soul! 

Nay,  gentle  friends,  earth  cannot  claim  the  soul ! 

Upward  and  onward  its  hold  flight  shall  be  ; 
The  bosom  of  Eternal  Love  its  goal, 

And  light  its  crown,  and  bliss  its  destiny  ! 
As  the  bright  meteor  darts  along  the  sky, 

Leaving  a  trail  of  beauty  on  its  way, 
So,  winged  with  energy  that  cannot  die, 

My  soul  shall  reach  the  gates  of  endless  day, 
And  bid  them  backward  roll ! 

In  vain,  O  death,  thy  iron  grasp  is  set 

On  nerves  that  quiver  with  delirious  pain  ; 
Claim  not  thy  triumph  o'er  the  spirit  yet, 

For  thou  shalt  die,  but  that  shall  live  again. 
And  thou,  O  sorrow,  that  with  whetted  beak 

Hast  torn  the  fibres  of  a  fervent  heart, 
Thy  final  doom  is  not  for  me  to  speak, 

Yet  thou,  too,  from  thy  carnage  must  depart, 
For  God  recalls  his  own. 

His  OWN  !     O,  Father,  'mid  the  budding  flowers 

And  glittering  dews  of  life's  unclouded  morn, 
Where  there  is  thrilling  music  in  the  hours 

Of  gentle  hopes  and  young  affections  born, 
Through  all  its  wanderings  from  thy  holy  throne, 

Through  all  its  loiterings  'mid  the  haunts  of  joy, 
Hath  my  frail  spirit  been  indeed  thine  own, 

By  ties  that  time  nor  death  can  e'er  destroy  — 
Thine,  Father,  thine  alone ! 

Shall  it  not  still  be  thine,  more  nobly  thine, 

When  from  the  ruins  of  young  hope  it  soars, 
And,  entering  into  life  and  peace  divine, 

Feels  the  full  worth  of  what  it  now  deplores  ? 
No  sorrows  there  shall  stain  its  gushing  springs  ; 

No  human  frailties  cloud  its  joyous  way  ; 
The  bird  that  soars  on  renovated  wings, 

And  bathes  its  crest  where  dawns  the  golden  day, 
Shall  be  less  free  and  pure. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  171 

And  more  than  this  !     With  vision  all  serene, 

Undimmed  by  tears,  and  bounded  not  by  clouds, 
With  naught  thy  goodness  and  its  gaze  between, 

And  where  no  mystery  thy  purpose  shrouds, 
The  soul,  the  glorious  soul,  in  works  of  love, 

Shall  seek,  and  only  seek  to  do  thy  will ; 
Highborn  and  holy  shall  its  efforts  prove, 

Thy  bright  designs  and  glory  to  fulfil, 

While  thou  and  thine  endure  ! 
1843. 


SCENE  IN  A  GRAVE-YARD. 

'T  WAS  an  old  grave-yard,  dim  with  massy  shade  ; 

The  long  grass  waved  above  the  fallen  stones  ; 
And  where  the  sexton,  with  his  careless  spade, 

Had  thrown  from  their  long  rest  the  mouldering  bones, 
The  wind,  with  something  of  a  mourner's  grief, 
Had  gathered  o'er  them  many  a  veiling  leaf. 

Beside  a  headstone,  green  with  shining  moss, 
And  overhung  with  grass  and  violets  rank, 

A  woman  knelt,  and  wreathed  the  old,  gray  cross 
With  myrtle  gathered  from  a  streamlet's  bank ; 

For  a  blue  stream  ran  there  arnid  the  graves, 

And  nursed  the  wild  flowers  from  its  murmuring  waves. 

Rich  were  the  robes  that  trailed  above  the  grass 
On  which  she  knelt,  and  a  long,  mantling  veil 

Of  costliest  broidery,  hid  the  gleaming  mass 
Of  dark-brown  hair,  that  o'er  her  forehead  pale 

Its  shadows  cast,  and  fell  in  heavy  curls 

Upon  a  throat  half  hid  with  strings  of  pearls. 

Her  soft,  white  fingers  wreathed  the  glossy  vines 
With  tender  care  around  the  graven  name  ; 

And  something  like  a  blush,  amid  the  lines 
Of  her  pale  cheeks,  revealed  awakened  shame. 

She  leaned  her  brow  upon  the  soft,  green  moss, 

And  tears  of  anguish  wet  the  gray  old  cross. 

A  child,  a  peasant  child,  beside  the  gate 

Of  this  old  church-yard  loitered  ;  and  her  eyes, 

With  an  expression,  earnest,  yet  sedate, 
Were  fixed  upon  the  lady,  in  surprise. 


172  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

Twice  the  poor  child,  with  pity  in  her  heart, 
Turned  toward  the  gateway,  yet  could  not  depart. 

Then  she  advanced,  then  doubted,  and  then  stopped  ; 

Looked  at  her  tattered  dress  and  naked  feet ; 
Looked  at  the  bright,  blue  sky  —  then  meekly  dropped 

Upon  her  knees,  and  with  a  murmur  sweet, 
Prayed  God  to  bless  the  lady  who  had  come 
To  weep  beside  that  old  and  humble  tomb. 

0  childhood  !  heaven  abides  within  thy  breast ; 
Love  in  untarnished  streams  flows  freely  there  ; 

Thy  heart  for  every  wanderer  would  find  rest, 

For  every  mourner  lifts  a  fervent  prayer  ; 
And  none  so  guilty,  none  so  worn  with  grief, 
That  thou  wilt  not  essay  to  yield  relief. 

The  peasant  girl  was  not  unmarked  ;  her  prayer, 
Her  touching  attitude,  her  soft,  bright  eyes, 

Thrilled  to  the  lady's  heart,  and  wakened  there 
Rich  human  love,  in  prodigal  supplies  ; 

She  rose  and  hastened  to  the  kneeling  child, 

Clasped  her  brown  hand,  bent  over  her,  and  smiled. 

"  Thy  prayer  is  not  in  vain,  sweet  wilding  rose  ! 

I  have  a  heart,  though  hardened  o'er  with  pride, 
Which  the  soft  voice  of  childhood  can  unclose, 

And  fill  with  tenderness  to  heaven  allied. 

1  shall  be  better  for  thy  simple  prayer, 
For  it  hath  broke  the  seal  of  proud  despair. 

"  Girl,  thou  art  yet  too  young  to  feel  the  woe 
That  womanhood  can  bring  ;  yet  in  thine  eye 

I  see  a  trace  of  thought  which  can  foreknow 
The  sorrows  thy  free  heart  may  now  defy. 

I  see  that  trace  ;  O,  much  may  it  avail, 

When  thou  hast  listened  to  my  mournful  tale." 

Leading  her  gently  to  the  same  old  tomb 
Where  she  had  knelt  in  penitence  and  tears, 

She  made  beside  her,  on  its  borders,  room, 

And  soothed  with  gentleness  the  poor  child's  fears. 

"  Nay,  dear  one,  fear  me  not,"  the  lady  said ; 

"  I  cast  my  pride  aside  when  with  the  dead." 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  173 

Strange  picture  was  it,  that  poor  peasant  girl, 
With  tattered  garments,  and  wild  streaming  hair, 

Seated  by  one  whom  broidered  lace,  and  pearl, 
And  robes  of  velvet  made  intensely  fair  ! 

Strange  picture  Avas  it,  yet  they  felt  it  not, 

For  outward  show  in  love  was  all  forgot. 

The  lady  paused  awhile,  and  memory  sped 

Away  to  olden  days  and  early  dreams  ; 
And  through  the  wild  and  tangled  paths  that  led 

Her  steps  away  from  youth's  bright,  sunny  streams. 
While  thus  she  mused,  her  cheek  grew  sad  and  pale  ; 
Then  waking  from  her  dream,  she  thus  began  her  tale  : 

"  Thou  art,  sweet  girl,  what  I  was,  when  a  child  ; 

A  fair,  bright,  laughing  thing,  yet  prone  to  tears  ; 
A  rambler  in  lone  places,  dim  and  wild  ; 

With  nature,  bold  —  with  man,  a  child  of  fears. 
A  cottage  was  my  home,  as  it  is  thine, 
And  poorer  than  thy  garb,  dear  girl,  was  mine. 

"  I  had  no  father.     On  a  lone  sea-isle, 

Where  bright  birds  sing,  and  skies  are  fair  and  warm, 
Far  from  his  home,  and  from  his  infant's  smile, 

His  comrades  laid  at  rest  his  lifeless  form. 
And  my  poor  mother,  on  this  world's  wide  sea, 
Had  but  one  beacon  left  —  her  love  for  me. 

"  O,  what  a  love  !  and  with  what  tireless  care 
She  wasted  strength  and  ease  to  spare  me  want ! 

While  I,  as  thoughtless  as  the  summer  air, 

Spent  all  my  hours  in  some  wild  shadowy  haunt ; 

There  weaving  those  bright  dreams  of  future  joy, 

Which  I  have  seen  successive  years  destroy. 

"  My  spirit  had  a  gift,  a  secret  gift, 

Which  answered  only  to  the  far,  bright  stars, 

When  through  the  greenwood's  high  and  changeful  rift, 
Streamed  down  the  light  of  Venus  and  of  Mars  ; 

Which  answered  only  to  the  winds  and  streams, 

The  sweet  wood-blossoms,  and  the  moon's  pale  beams. 

"  Dear  child,  perhaps  thou  canst  not  understand 
The  mystery  of  this  gift.     And  yet,  maybe, 

Thou  'st  heard  of  those  who  consecrate  the  land 
With  thrilling  song,  and  plaintive  minstrelsy. 
15* 


174  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

'T  was  poetry,  dear  girl,  that  swept  my  soul, 
And  won  me  to  its  strong,  yet  sweet  control. 

"  I  saw  strange  beauty  in  the  silent  things 
That  others  idly  passed  ;  the  small,  wild  bird 

That  fluttered  o'er  the  rose  his  bright,  blue  wings, 
The  singing  brook,  by  careless  ears  unheard, 

The  wild  flower  swinging  in  the  lonely  dell,  — 

All  bound  me  with  a  strong  and  wondrous  spell. 

"  Rapt  by  the  beauty  of  my  own  sealed  thoughts, 
I  grew  estranged  from  human  life  and  love  ; 

And  gathered  round  me,  in  my  wild  resorts, 
Bright  spirits  from  the  past,  and  from  above  ; 

Angels  were  with  me  —  heroes,  too,  of  old, 

And  dreams  of  love  that  words  have  never  told. 

"  I  saw  the  future  —  't  was  a  dazzling  scroll ; 

There  gleamed  in  lines  of  light  my  own  bright  fate  ; 
There  had  the  glorious  triumphs  of  my  soul 

Secured  my  name  a  place  among  the  great ; 
And  I,  a  peasant  girl,  untaught,  unknown, 
Already  dreamed  of  poet's  crown  and  throne. 

"  I  grew  delirious  with  my  own  wild  hopes, 
And  scorned  the  dull  and  silent  life  I  led  ; 

Like  the  sleep-walker,  who  in  darkness  gropes, 
So  'wildering  visions  rilled  my  dizzy  head  ; 

And  nursing  by  the  streams  the  secret  fire, 

I  learned  from  them  to  tune  my  untaught  lyre. 

"  The  few  old  books  that  graced  our  little  shelf, 
Gave  themes  to  my  rude  song  ;  I  also  sought 

For  dawning  sentiment  within  myself, 

And  clothed  with  words  of  music  my  crude  thought ; 

My  fledgeling  rhymes  rang  gayly  through  the  wood, 

Like  the  first  warblings  of  a  nestling  brood. 

"  At  length  these  dreams  o'ermastered  all  my  life  ; 

Duty,  affection,  home,  became  as  naught ; 
My  mind  with  projects  of  proud  fame  was  rife, 

And  human  glory  guided  every  thought ; 
My  purpose  now  was  fixed  —  the  world  should  know 
What  hidden  fires  within  my  soul  could  glow. 


POETICAL  SELECTIONS.  175 

"  Dear  child,  the  tale  is  long.     'T  were  vain  to  tell 

The  cruel  anguish  of  my  mother's  heart, 
When  to  my  cottage-home  I  bade  farewell, 

And  from  her  sight  she  saw  my  form  depart. 
She  blessed  me  when  the  last  farewell  was  spoken  — 
She  blessed  me,  though  her  heart  was  crushed  and  broken. 

'  I  never  saw  her  more.     In  giddy  throngs, 
Where  youth,  and  beauty,  and  a  dazzling  wit 

Soon  gained  me  rich  applause,  that  mother's  wrongs 
Became  like  dreams  ;  and  yet  remorse  would  flit 

At  moments  through  my  heart,  and  waken  there 

A  feeling  not  unlike  its  late  despair. 

"  But  death  released  her  ;  ^nd  a  peasant  friend 
Sent  me  the  mournful  tidings.     She  had  died 

Blessing  her  erring  daughter,  and  her  end 

Was  one  of  triumph,  though  her  soul  was  tried 

By  my  ingratitude.     This  parting  gift  — 

This  lock  of  silvery  hair,  was  all  she  left. 

"A  year  of  bitter  penitence  and  grief, 

A  season  of  wild  tumult  in  my  soul, 
And  I  again,  to  seek  a  vain  relief, 

Mixed  with  the  crowd,  and  let  its  praises  roll 
Like  Lethe  tides  o'er  memory's  burning  waste, 
Alas  !  those  waves  had  lost  their  early  taste  ! 

"  Sweet  child,  forgive  me  ;  it  is  surely  strange 
That  I  should  talk  to  thy  young  heart  of  love, 

And  yet,  I  would  describe  the  wondrous  change 
That  passed  o'er  earth  and  all  the  sky  above  ; 

A  change  that  glorified  the  stars  and  flowers, 

And  clothed  with  dreamy  beauty  all  the  hours. 

"  I  stood  at  evening  in  a  dim  alcove, 

O'erlooking  moon-lit  waters  ;  and  my  heart, 

With  the  impassioned  tenderness  of  love, 
Was  more  than  filled.     I  had  removed  apart 

From  the  gay  crowd  that  revelled  in  the  dance, 

To  give  free  license  to  this  sweet  romance. 

"  One  came  and  stood  beside  me  ;  one  whose  words 
Were  more  than  music  —  more,  indeed,  than  thought ; 

May  be,  sweet  child,  thou  'st  heard  those  woodland  birds 
Whose  notes  with  richest  melody  are  fraught ; 


176  POETICAL    SELECTIONS. 

They  are  not  half  so  rich,  nor  half  so  sweet, 
As  were  his  tones,  with  fervent  love  replete. 

"  The  moon  shone  clear  upon  his  high  white  browr 
And  softened  the  deep  glory  of  his  eye  ; 

And  tears  were  there,  when  love's  first  earnest  vow 
Called  for  its  witness  from  the  far,  bright  sky  ; 

Alas  !  that  pure  and  lofty  heart,  all  mine, 

I  blindly  sacrificed  at  mammon's  shrine. 

"  I  loved  him  !  yes,  I  could  have  freely  poured 
My  heart's  blood  forth  in  secret,  to  have  spared 

The  slightest  anguish  to  a  mind  that  soared 
So  loftily  as  his  ;  and  yet  I  dared, 

With  all  my  knowledge  of  this  passion's  sway, 

To  cast  his  love,  for  worthless  gold,  away  ! 

"  I  wedded  one  whom  rank  and  wealth  have  placed 
High  in  this  cold  world's  favor  ;  but  his  love 

Ne'er  on  my  heart  one  burning  line  hath  traced, 
Ne'er  can  his  look  or  voice  my  spirit  move  ; 

Yet  he  is  kind,  and  looks  with  tender  pride 

Upon  his  haughty,  though  unhappy  bride. 

"  No  joy  for  me  in  summer  sun  or  air, 

No  pleasure  in  the  crowd  that  throngs  my  steps  ; 

I  spend  my  days  in  tears  and  silent  prayer, 
My  nights  with  this  dear  token  at  my  lips  — 

This  parting  token  which  that  mother  gave, 

Who  sleeps  in  peace  within  this  humble  grave. 

"  My  tale  is  ended  now,  dear,  gentle  girl  ; 

My  guilty  tale  ;  O,  from  its  sadness,  learn 
That  peace  is  never  found  in  pleasure's  whirl, 

Nor  where  ambition's  luring  meteors  burn. 
These  bring  no  lasting  joy  ;  in  humble  worth 
Lies  all  the  enduring  glory  of  this  earth." 

The  lady  ceased  ;  and  turning  toward  the  child, 

Saw  that  her  sweet  young  face  was  bathed  in  tears  ; 

But  weeping  thus,  the  girl  serenely  smiled, 
Bright  as  the  bow  that  on  the  cloud  appears  ; 

Then  murmured,  "  Thou  indeed  hast  felt  the  rod, 

Yet  he  who  chastens,  is  he  not  thy  God  ? 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.        t  177 

"  Pray  to  him,  gentle  lady  ;  pray  in  faith, 

And  he  will  give  thee  peace,  and  love,  and  joy  ; 

Pray,  lady,  for  our  Saviour,  even  in  death, 

Found  strength  in  prayer  that  pain  could  not  destroy  ; 

And  I,  dear  lady,  J,  so  young,  so  gay, 

Have  felt  it  sweet  to  kneel  me  down  and  pray." 

"  Pray  on,  sweet  child,  and  God  will  give  thee  strength 
To  keep  thy  pure  young  heart  from  earthly  stains  ; 

And  I,  yes,  I  shall  find  that  peace  at  length, 
Which  now  alone  to  me  in  prayer  remains. 

Thy  words  shall  long  within  my  spirit  dwell, 

And  soothe  my  thoughts  like  some  redeeming  spell. 

"  But  thou  art  sad  ;  go,  seek  the  bird  and  bee, 
The  glad  bright  waters,  and  all  joyous  things, 

And  leave  these  dark  old  tombs  to  death  and  me, 
For  sunshine  ne'er  to  us  its  gladness  brings  ; 

Go,  and  God  bless  thee  !     We  shall  meet  again 

Where  there  is  no  more  sorrow,  sin,  nor  pain." 
1843. 


SIMPLICITY. 

BENEATH  a  slant  old  forest  tree, 

My  little  Lucy  sat ; 

Her  hands  were  dropped  upon  her  knee, 
And  on  her  head,  she  wore,  like  me, 

A  rustic  linen  hat. 

My  little  Lucy  was  a  child 

Of  most  angelic  thought ; 
With  every  feeling  soft  and  mild, 
With  every  vision  sweet  and  wild, 

Her  heart  and  soul  were  fraught. 

She  sat  among  the  woodland  flowers, 

Among  the  woodland  birds  ; 
And  ne'er,  through  all  the  summer  hours, 
Was  heard  within  those  fragrant  bowers 

Such  music  as  her  words. 

She  prattled  to  the  singing  brook 
That  murmured  through  the  wood, 

And  from  each  scalloped  leaf  that  shook 

Above  her  head,  her  spirit  took 
A  more  exalted  mood. 


178  .      POETICAL  SELECTIONS. 

She  heard  the  wild  bees'  drowsy  hum 

Around  the  drooping  larch, 
And  fancied  that  the  fays  had  come, 
With  buglehorn  and  muffled  drum, 
To  beat  a  funeral  mareh. 

She  watched  the  blue-bird  by  the  stream, 

Outpouring  from  his  breast, 
The  music  of  her  own  bright  dream, 
A  warbling  that  to  her  did  seem 
The  music  of  the  blest. 

The  spangled  butterfly  that  came 

And  nestled  'mid  the  grass, 
What  was  it,  but  a  form  and  name 
For  some  sweet  fancy,  void  of  aim, 
That  through  her  soul  would  pass? 

She  gazed  upon  the  silent  lake, 

Through  boughs  of  greenest  trees, 
And  saw  it  to  its  bosom  take 
The  wild  swan  and  the  yellow  drake, 
The  sunbeams  and  the -breeze. 

She  thought  these  things  made  up  the  sum 

Of  human  love  and  life  ; 
And  never  dreamed  the  days  would  come 
When  nature's  voices  would  grow  dumb 

Before  the  spirit's  strife. 

Ah,  simple  Lucy  !  would  that  fate 
Had  left  thee  that  young  heart ! 
That  all  who  struggle  to  be  great, 
Might  learn,  ere  yet  it  is  too  late, 

To  choose  the  better  part. 
1843. 


ANNIE. 

SHE  was  a  fair,  sweet  girl, 

Gentle,  yet  gay  ; 
And  her  blue  eyes  outshone 

The  skies  of  May. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  179 

Pious  she  was,  and  loved 

Of  all  things  best, 
To  lean  on  Jesus'  arm, 

And  feel  at  rest. 

She  is  a  matron  now, 

Loving  and  loved  ;     • 
The  beauty  of  her  soul 

Has  been  long  proved. 

Children  with  sunny  eyes 

Sit  at  her  feet, 
And  sing  their  little  hymns 

With  voices  sweet. 

Calmly  her  life  flows  on, 

Like  some  blue  stream, 
Or  like  the  life  we  lead 

In  fairy  dream. 

The  poor  and  weary  strew 

Flowers  in  her  way, 
For  she  hath  been  their  sun 

In  sorrow's  day. 

Heaven  bless  the  blue-eyed  girl, 

The  matron  kind  ! 
Heaven  bless  her  hearth  and  store, 

Her  heart  and  mind  ! 
1843. 


AUTUMN  MUSINGS. 
FATHER,  thy  presence  in  this  great  decay 

Is  felt  and  recognized.     The  dead-leaf  scent, 
The  hectic  streak,  the  golden  autumn  ray, 

The  wave-hymn,  with  its-  summer  joy  half  spent, 
The  lingering  bird,  whose  summer-friends  have  flown, 

The  mottled  foliage  of  the  rustling  tree, 
The  faded  paths,  with  fallen  leaves  o'erstrewn, 

All  lead  the  heart  by  some  strange  link  to  Thee. 

I  trace  thy  footsteps  in  the  silent  wood, 

And  follow,  wooed  by  many  a  mystic  sign  ; 

Feeling,  intensely,  that  thy  ways  are  good, 
And  that  thy  works  are  everywhere  divine. 


180  POETICAL    SELECTIONS. 

CHANGE  is  thy  minister,  severe,  but  wise  ; 

It  works  out  Life  from  Death,  and  Joy  from  Grief; 
Displaces  summer's  green  by  autumn  dyes, 

And,  to  revive  the  root,  destroys  the  leaf. 

Here  lies  a  flower,  its  sweets  forever  lost, 

Its  texture  blemished,  and  its  hue  grown  dim  ; 
How  much  from  Nature's  hand  that  flower  hath  cost ; 

What  days  of  care  to  form  each  fragile  limb  ! 
And  yet  thy  minister,  with  reckless  hand, 

Hath  cast  it  idly  on  the  sward  away  ; 
Over  its  matchless  form  hath  swept  his  wand, 

And  sent  through  every  vein  a  swift  decay. 

Yet  from  this  waste  the  stores  of  Life  are  fed, 

And  other  days  shall  mark  another  change, 
When  what  we  now  lament  as  crushed  and  dead 

Shall  have  a  brighter  life,  a  form  more  strange. 
And  from  these  tokens,  Father,  I  have  learned 

True  lessons  of  the  fate  prepared  for  me  — 
That  not  for  Death,  my  spirit's  lamp  hath  burned  — 

It  shall  be  lit  again,  and  shine  for  Thee  ! 
1843. 


LIZZY. 

"  OUR  niece"  (so  all  the  relatives  say,) 

Is  a  very  superior  child  ; 
She  's  pretty,  and  playful,  and  saucy,  and  gay, 

And  funny,  and  wilful,  and  wild, 
And  we  have  the  loveliest  walks  and  strolls  — 

My  little  Lizzy  and  I  — 
And  open  together  our  secret  souls 

When  none  but  the  birds  are  nigh. 

Down  by  the  brook  where  the  wild-flowers  grow, 

My  niece  to  my  bosom  prest, 
With  a  heart  of  frolicksome  love  I  go, 

For  a  season  of  joy  and  rest. 
And  Lizzy,  the  sweet  little  laughing  thing, 

Has  a  passion  for  brooks  and  flowers, 
And  loves  to  stand  on  the  bridge  and  fling 

The  cardinals  down  in  showers. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  181 

And  she  claps  her  hands,  as  she  sees  them  go 

Dancing  adown  the  stream  ; 
And  I  pray,  meanwhile,  that  her  life  may  flow, 

Like  those  blossoms,  in  Heaven's  bright  beam. 
She  has  a  trick  of  smelling  the  flowers, 

And  placing  them  in  her  hair, 
Which  she  does,  of  course,  (she 's  a  niece  of  ours,) 

With  a  very  bewitching  air. 

But  I  must  confess,  to  the  detriment 

Of  my  little  niece's  taste, 
That  her  thoughts  on  flowers  are  not  always  bent, 

Nor  her  hands  with  cardinals  graced  ; 
She  loves  to  plash  in  the  shining  wave 

The  muddy,  ponderous  stone ; 
And  will  fidget  about,  and  scold,  and  rave, 

If  she  can't  have  a  way  of  her  own  I 

She 's  a  famous  mimic — can  mock  the  cows, 

And  crow  like  a  chanticleer ; 
And  she  calls  the  dogs  in  the  books,  "Bow-wows" 

And  other  things  quite  as  queer  ! 
She  acts  "  good-bye"  with  a  courteous  bend 

Of  her  little  curly  head  ; 
And  of  gracious  "  thank-ye's"  there  is  no  end 

When  teasing  for  meat  or  bread . 

She  thinks  it  is  fine  to  get  "  grandpa's  specs," 

And  handle  them  like  her  own, 
And  open  the  Bible,  and  read  her  text, 

In  a  sonorous,  sing-song  tone. 
I  'm  sure  she  's  a  very  wonderful  child  ; 

Indeed,  she  's  the  family  pride  ; 
And  though  some  whisper,  "  Your  niece  will  be  spoiled," 

You  know  talent  is  always  decried  ! 
1843. 


GROVE   WORSHIPPINGS. 

OH  for  the  pomp  of  waters  !  for  the  roar 
Of  waves  infuriate,  plunging  to  be  free  ! 

For  rocks  deep-rent  by  lightnings,  and  hung  o'er 
With  moss,  and  vines,  and  many  a  gnarled  old  tree ! 
16 


182  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

For  thunderings,  low  and  distant,  and  the  swell, 
Monotonous,  but  deep,  of  the  great  sea  ! 

And  the  slow  throbbing  toll  of  some  old  bell, 
At  twilight  heard,  upon  the  bended  knee  ! 

Oh  for  a  solitude  upon  some  shore 

Where  I  might  pour  my  spirit  forth  to  Him, 
Who,  by  the  anguish  of  the  cross  he  bore, 

His  bleeding  side,  wet  brow,  and  quivering  limb, 
Proved  his  deep  suffering  love  for  me  and  mine  ! 

Saviour,  thou  Son  of  God  !  my  soul  hath  sought 
In  vain,  through  all  its  haunts,  a  fitting  shrine 

Where  it  may  lift  to  Thee  its  burning  thought. 

Yet  Thou  wert  never  stern.     Sublime,  and  strong, 

And  sinless,  yet  most  meek  !     Thy  shrine  should  be 
Rather  the  haunt  of  wildflowers,  where  the  song 

Of  the  bright  black-bird  thrills  upon  the  tree, 
Than  one  of  fearful  grandeur,  swept  by  storms, 

And  filled  with  awful  music  from  the  waves, 
Or  peopled  with  strange  fantasies  and  forms 

That  start  to  life  from  Memory's  ivied  graves. 

Here,  in  this  loveliness  of  woods  and  shades, 

Where  the  dark  pine  is  sighing  in  the  breeze, 
Where  the  bright  sunshine  quivers  through  the  glades, 

And  falls  in  mottled  gold  beneath  the  trees, 
Here  will  I  dedicate,  with  voiceless  prayer, 

A  holy  altar  unto  God  and  Thee  — 
And  the  dim  wood,  and  the  religious  air, 

My  temple  and  my  sacristy  shall  be. 

A  temple  filled  with  flowers  !  whose  fragrant  breath 

Comes  o'er  my  sense  like  music  o'er  the  soul ! 
The  eye  meets  here  no  token  of  dread  Death, 

No  fragment  of  the  spirit's  broken  bowl. 
All,  all  is  joyous  life  !  and  life  is  sweet, 

Could  we  but  make  it  what  Thy  love  designed  — 
A  state  where  soul  its  kindred  souls  may  meet, 

And  love  with  mortal  love  may  be  entwined. 

Life  is  not  what  it  should  be,  what  thy  word 

Scattered  in  old  Judea,  years  ago, 
Would  make  it  even  now,  if  rightly  heard, 

And  followed  in  our  being's  daily  flow. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS,  183 

Oh  Saviour  !  wars  are  with  us,  and  bold  crimes  ; 

And  man  looks  up  beneath  the  fair  blue  sky 
And  mocks  thy  name  ;  and  there  are  fearful  times 

When  Sin  walks  by  us  with  defying  eye. 

We  need  Thee  with  us  —  Thee,  whose  patient  life 

Was  one  calm  triumph  of  the  Good  and  True  ; 
We  need  Thee  here  to  still  our  heartless  strife, 

To  love  and  weep  as  Thou  wert  wont  to  do  ! 
Wert  Thou  but  here,  our  steps  would  follow  Thee; 

We  would  throw  by  these  idols  of  an  hour, 
These  dreams  of  love  and  greatness,  and  be  free  ! 

Nor  free  alone,  but  nerved  with  victor-power  ! 

And  art  Thou  not,  oh  Prince  of  Glory,  here? 

Can  we  not  follow  where  thy  feet  have  trod, 
And,  by  an  humble  love  and  faith  sincere, 

Approach  the  likeness  of  the  Son  of  God  ? 
Thy  LIFE  is  with  us,  and  thy  quickening  WORD  — 

Shall  these  be  hidden  from  our  daily  sight, 
Or  only  'neath  the  temple's  arches  heard, 

Or  dreamed  of  in  the  still,  inactive  night? 

Oh,  no  !     Thy  holy  lessons  shall  be  learned 

By  wayside  connings  in  our  daily  walk. 
And,  as  the  hearts  of  thy  disciples  burned 

When  listening,  as  they  journeyed,  to  thy  talk, 
So  shall  our  souls  be  thrilled,  our  hearts  subdued, 

By  the  deep  wisdom  of  thy  gentle  speech, 
Until  with  light,  and  peace,  and  love  imbued, 

Thy  kingdom,  and  its  rest  divine,  we  reach. 
1843. 


THE    SUPREMACY  OF  GOD. 

THE  clouds  broke  solemnly  apart,  and,  mass 

By  mass,  their  heavy  darkness  bore  away 
With  sullen  mutterings,  leaving  mountain  pass 

And  rocky  defile  open  to  the  day. 
The  pinnacles  of  Zion  glittering  lay 

In  the  rich  splendor  of  Jehovah's  light, 
Which,  pouring  down  with  a  meridian  sway, 

Bathed  mouldering  tower  and  barricaded  height 
In  floods  of  dazzling  rays,  bewildering  to  the  sight ! 


184  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

God  shone  upon  the  nations.     In  the  west 

The  owl-like  Druid  saw  the  brightening  rays, 
And  muffling  his  gray  robes  across  his  breast, 

Strode  like  a  phantom  from  the  coming  blaze. 
Old  Odin,  throned  amid  the  polar  haze, 

Heard  the  shrill  cry  of  Vala  on  the  blast, 
And  glancing  southward  with  a  wild  amaze, 

Saw  God's  bright  banner  o'er  the  nations  cast, 
Then  to  his  dim  old  halls,  retreated  far  and  fast ! 

But  nearer  yet,  and  quivering  in  the  blaze 

That  wrapt  Olympus  with  a  shroud  of  glory, 
Great  Jove  rose  up  —  the  pride  of  Rome's  proud  days — 

His  awful  head  with  centuries  grown  hoary, 
His  sceptre  reeking,  and  his  mantle  gory  ! 

Great  Jove,  the  dread  of  each  inferior  god, 
Renowned  in  song,  immortalized  in  story, 

No  longer  shook  Olympus  with  his  nod, 
But,  shivering  like  a  ghost,  down,  down  to  Hades  trod  ! 

Egyptian  Isis,  from  the  mystic  rites 

Of  her  voluptuous  priesthood,  shrank  in  awe, 

Mazed  by  the  splendor  throned  on  Zion's  heights, 
More  dreadful  than  the  flame  which  Israel  saw 
Break  forth  from  Sinai  when  God  gave  the  law ! 

To  her  more  dreadful,  for  beneath  its  sway, 

She  saw,  with  prophet-gaze,  how  soon  her  power 

Must,  like  the  brooding  night-haze,  melt  away, 
And  leave  her  where  the  mists  of  ages  lower, 
The  grim  ghost  of  a  dream,  mocked  in  the  noontide  hour ! 

And  gentler  deities  —  the  spirits  bright 

That  haunted  mountain  glen  and  woodland  shade  ; 
That  watched  o'er  sleeping  shepherds  through  the  night 

And  blessed  at  early  dawn  the  bright-eyed  maid  — 
The  nymphs  and  dryads  of  the  fount  and  glade, 

The  blest  divinities  of  home  and  hearth, 
These,  with  an  exile  footstep,  slowly  strayed, 

And  lingered  by  each  haunt  of  olden  mirth 
Till  their  bright  forms  grew  dim,  and  vanished  from  the  earth. 

Now  GOD  is  GOD  !  The  Alpine  summit  rings 
With  the  loud  echoes  of  Jehovah's  praise  ; 

And  from  the  valley  where  the  cow-boy  sings, 
Go  up  to  God  alone,  his  votive  lays. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  185 

To  Him,  the  mariner  at  midnight  prays  ; 

To  Him  uplifts  the  yearnings  of  his  soul ; 
And  where  the  day-beam  on  the  snow-peak  plays, 

And  where  the  thunders  o'er  the  deserts  roll, 
His  praise  goes  swelling  up,  and  rings  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
His  Spirit  animates  the  lowliest  flower, 

And  nerves  the  sinews  of  the  loftiest  sphere  ! 
In  every  globule  of  the  falling  shower, 

In  each  transition  of  the  varied  year, 
[ts  life,  and  light,  and  wondrous  power  appear. 

It  burns,  all  glorious,  in  the  noonday  sun, 
And  from  the  moon  beams  forth  serenely  clear, 

Or,  when  the  day  is  o'er  and  eve  begun, 
Flings  forth  the  radiant  flag  no  other  god  hath  won. 
All  hail,  Jehovah  !     Hail,  Supremest  God  ! 

Where'er  the  whirlwind  stalks  upon  the  seas, 
Where'er  the  giant  thunderbolt  hath  trod 

Or  turned  a  furrow  for  the  summer  breeze, 
Where  liquid  cities  round  Spitzbergen  freeze 

And  lift  their  ice-spires  to  the  electric  light 
Or  soft  Italian  skies  and  flowering  trees 

Their  balmy  odors  and  bright  hues  unite  — 
There  art  Thou,  Lord  of  Love,  unrivalled  in  thy  might ! 
Praise,  praise  to  Thee  from  every  breathing  thing  ! 

And  from  the  temples  of  adoring  hearts. 
Science  to  Thee  her  sky-reapt  fruits  shall  bring 

And  Commerce  rear  thine  altars  in  her  marts. 
Thou  shall  be  worshipped  of  the  glorious  Arts, 

And  sought  by  Wisdom  in  her  dim  retreat ; 
The  student,  brooding  o'er  his  mystic  charts, 

Shall  mark  the  track  of  thy  star-sandalled  feet, 
Till,  through  the  Zodiac  traced,  it  mounts  thy  Mercy-seat! 

Praise,  praise  to  Thee  from  peaceful  home  and  hearth  ; 

From  hearts  of  humble  hope  and  meek  desire  ; 
Praise  from  the  lowly  and  the  high  of  earth, 

From  palace  hall  and  frugal  cottage  fire. 
We  cannot  lift  our  spirit-yearnings  higher, 

Nor  speed  them  upward  to  a  loftier  goal ; 
Then  let  us  each  with  fervent  thought  aspire 

To  cast  aside  the  chain  of  earth's  control, 
And  stand  in  God's  own  light,  communers  with  God's  soul ! 
1844.  1C* 


18S  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

LUTHER. 

'T  WAS  night,  black  night,  o'er  Christendom, 
And  denser  night  within  men's  souls ; 

Thought  slumbered  in  a  human  tomb, 
And  truth  lay  hid  in  dusty  scrolls. 

A  voice  rose  clear,  amid  the  gloom 
And  silence  of  this  awful  night ; 

A  voice  that  rent  the  bolted  tomb, 

And  called  the  mouldering  dead  to  light. 

A  voice  sublime,  yet  calm  and  sweet, 
Was  heard  along  the  cloistered  aisles  ; 

It  echoed  through  the  crowded  street, 
And  shook  the  old  cathedral  piles. 

It  was  the  voice  of  one  who  long 

Had  crouched  beneath  the  papal  rod  ; 

He  rose  at  last,  sublime  and  strong, 
The  Champion  of  the  Word  of  God  ! 

Rome  shook  her  scepteied  arm  in  wrath, 
And  threw  her  snares  along  his  way ; 

He  swept  them  lightly  from  his  path  — 
A  giant  with  a  thread  at  play. 

Truth,  mighty  in  his  soul,  spake  out, 
And  Error  with  her  midnight  train, 

Blind  Superstition,  Fear,  and  Doubt, 
Fell,  ne'er  to  rise  so  strong  again  ! 

When  papal  thunders  shook  the  sky, 
And  hurled  their  red  bolts  at  his  head, 

He  raised  the  Word  of  God  on  high, 

And  shining  helms  were  round  him  spread. 

When  proud  Philosophy,  with  sneers, 
Upon  his  holy  "  THESES"  trod, 

He  poured  within  its  startled  ears 
The  wisdom  of  the  Word  of  God. 

Old  monks  peered  out  from  gloomy  cells, 
And  raised  their  cowls  in  mute  surprise  ; 

Fair  nuns  forgot  their  vesper  bells, 
And  hope  shone  in  their  sweet,  young  eyes. 


1844. 


POETICAL  SELECTIONS.  187 

The  priests,  like  hissing  serpents,  spat 

Their  harmless  venom  in  his  face ; 
But  at  his  feet  poor  sinners  sat, 

And  wept  to  hear  him  talk  of  grace. 

Young  men,  with  true  and  earnest  hearts, 

Gazed  on  him  with  adoring  eyes  ; 
And  left  the  lore  of  human  arts, 

To  learn  the  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

The  stream  of  Truth  ran  freely  forth, 

And  swept  the  cloister  walls  away ; 
Young  vestals  learned  the  love  of  earth, 

And  loving,  better  learned  to  pray. 

Such  fruits  the  great  Reformer  saw 

Hang  clustering  on  his  planted  tree ; 
And  though  condemned  by  human  law, 

He  felt  himself  in  Christ  made  free. 

His  was  the  lesson  deep  ingrained 

Within  the  tablature  of  life  — 
That  freedom  of  the  soul  is  gained 

Alone  through  battle  and  through  strife. 

O,  be  his  holy  lessons  ours ! 

Let  us  pursue  the  path  he  trod, 
And  prove,  in  face  of  human  powers, 

Bold  champions  of  the  Word  of  God ! 


THE   ANSWERED   PRAYER. 

I  PRAYED  for  Beauty —  for  the  magic  spell 

That  binds  the  wisest  with  its  potent  thrall, 
That  f  within  fond  human  hearts  might  dwell, 

And  shine  the  fairest  in  the  festal  hall. 
I  would  have  seen  the  lordliest  bend  the  knee, 

The  loveliest  bow,  o'erdazzled  by  my  charms  ; 
While  he  I  long  had  vainly  loved  —  ah,  he, 

Subdued,  should  clasp  me  fondly  in  his  arms! 

But  Beauty  o'er  my  spirit  waved  her  wing, 
Yet  shed  no  brightness  on  my  form  or  face ; 

And  passing  years  but  darker  shadows  fling 
Upon  the  cheek  where  care  hath  left  its  trace. 


188  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

My  prayer,  if  heard  in  heaven,  hath  been  denied ; 

No  heart  bows  humbly  'neath  my  Beauty's  sway ; 
And  he  I  loved,  now  seeks  a  fairer  bride, 

With  brighter  blushes  and  a  smile  more  gay. 

I  prayed  for  Riches.     Oh  !  for  lavish  wealth, 

To  pour  in  golden  showers  on  those  I  loved  ; 
I  would  have  gladly  spent  my  youth  and  health, 

Could  I,  by  gifts  like  these,  my  love  hath  proved. 
I  prayed  for  Riches,  that  before  God's  shrine 

I  might  with  gifts  and  costly  tribute  kneel ; 
And  thought  the  treasures  of  Golconda's  mine 

Too  poor  to  show  the  favor  of  my  zeal. 

Alas !  wealth  came  not ;  and  the  liberal  deeds 

My  heart  devised ,  my  hand  must  fail  to  do ; 
And  though  o'er  prostrate  Truth  my  spirit  bleeds, 

In  vain  the  aid  of  magic  gold  I  woo. 
The  poor  may  plead  to  me  for  daily  food, 

And  those  I  love  in  lowly  want  may  pine ; 
I  will  pour  out  for  them  my  heart's  warm  blood, 

But  other  gifts  than  this  can  ne'er  be  mine 

I  prayed  for  Genius  —  for  the  power  to  move 

Hard  hearts,  and  reckless  minds,  and  stubborn  wills, 
To  execute  the  holy  deeds  of  love, 

And  light  Truth's  fires  upon  a  thousand  hills. 
I  prayed  for  Eloquence  to  plead  the  cause 

Of  human  rights,  and  God's  eternal  grace ; 
To  cry  aloud  o'er  Mercy's  outraged  laws, 

And  speed  the  great  redemption  of  my  race. 

But  all  in  vain.     My  feeble  tongue  can  breathe 

No  portion  of  the  fire  that  burns  within  ; 
In  vain  my  fancy  vivid  thoughts  may  wreathe 

In  scorching  flames  to  vanquish  human  sin. 
Powerless  my  words  upon  the  air  float  by, 

And  wrong  and  crime,  disdain  the  weak  crusade  ; 
While  vice  gleams  on  me  its  exultant  eye, 

And  bids  me  show  the  conquests  I  have  made. 

I  prayed  for  Peace  —  for  a  strong  heart  to  bear 
The  keen  privations  of  my  humble  fate ; 

For  patient  faith  to  struggle  with  despair, 
And  shed  a  brightness  o'er  my  low  estate. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  189 

I  prayed  to  be  content  with  humble  deeds, 
With  "  widow's  mites,"  and  scanty  charities  ; 

To  follow  meekly  where  my  duty  leads, 
Though  through  the  lowliest  vale  of  life  it  lies. 

This  prayer  was  answered  ;  for  a  peace  divine 

Spread  through  the  inmost  depths  of  all  my  heart ; 
I  felt  that  that  same  blessed  lot  was  mine 

Which  fell  on  her  who  chose  the  better  part. 
What  though  the  world  abroad  ne'er  hears  my  name  ? 

What  though  no  chains  upon  weak  hearts  I  bind? 
It  is  a  happier  lot  than  Wealth  or  Fame, 

To  do  my  duty  with  a  willing  mind  ! 
1845.. 


ECCLESIASTES  IX.  10. 

A  LABORER,  in  the  field  of  golden  grain, 

Sang  at  his  toil ;  and  though  his  weary  limbs 
He  gladly  on  the  soft  grass  would  have  lain, 

Where  the  breeze  wandered ,  and  the  birds  their  hymns 
Poured  from  the  oak-tree  boughs,  yet  evermore, 
Whene'er  he  heard  the  pine-tree's  softened  roar, 
Or  the  clear  gush  of  waters,  or  the  hum 
Of  the  wild  bees,  that  from  the  woodlands  come, 
Or  the  low  breath  of  flowers  where'er  he  trod, 
A  voice  passed  through  him  like  the  voice  of  God,  — 
"  Work  while  the  day  is  thine  !     Be  strong,  be  brave ! 
There  is  no  labor  for  thee  in  the  grave." 

In  a  dim  room,  shut  from  the  proud  world's  eye, 
A  youthful  artist  wrought.     Not  lone  to  him 

This  humble  studio.     Visions  hovered  nigh, 
Most  beautiful  in  attitude  and  limb. 

Yet  saddened  by  the  shapes  of  loveliness 

That  thronged  his  brain  to  prodigal  excess, 

And  by  the  feebleness  of  his  young  hand, 

Which  faltered  in  the  work  his  soul  had  planned, 

He  would  have  fainted.     But  a  voice  spake  clear, 

As  though  a  spirit  breathed  it  in  his  ear,  — 

"  Up  !     Let  thy  hand  these  glorious  visions  save  ! 

There  is  no  device  in  the  dreamless  grave." 


190  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

A  student,  pale  with  vigils  kept  at  night 

O'er  the  dark  pages  of  an  ancient  tongue, 
Opened  his  chamber  to  the  soft  starlight, 

And  on  his  couch  his  languid  body  flung. 
"  Vain,  vain  this  toil !"  he  murmured,  as  the  tears 
Gushed  hotly  forth.     "  O,  long  and  weary  years 
Must  in  such  strife  be  spent !     Day  after  day, 
Still  must  I  labor,  suffer,  weep  and  pray  ! 
And  if  I  fail  at  last !"     Then,  faint  and  far, 
A  voice  responded  from  his  favorite  star,  — 
"  Toil  on  !     Thy  spirit  shall  not  vainly  crave. 
Toil  on  !     There  is  no  knowledge  in  the  grave." 

"  Truth,  why  elude  me  thus  ?     Have  I  not  vowed 

A  long  unswerving  homage  at  thy  shrine  ? 
Alas,  my  brain  is  weak,  my  spirit  bowed  ! 

Why  should  I  longer  seek  to  make  thee  mine  1" 
The  stern  philosopher,  with  shrouded  head, 
Thus  mourned  that  wisdom  from  his  spirit  fled  ; 
And  half  resolved  to  throw  his  labors  by, 
And  lay  him  down  despairingly  and  die. 
Then  Wisdom,  softened  by  her  lover's  tears, 
With  these  sweet  words  his  drooping  spirit  cheers,  — 
"  Mourn  not,  thou  faithful !     Lo,  I  am  thy  slave  ! 
Take  me !  there  is  no  wisdom  in  the  grave." 

So,  evermore,  some  voice  the  heart  of  man 
Cheers  in  his  labors.     He  doth  ever  feel 

Some  gladdening  inspiration  in  his  plan, 

Some  sunbeam  to  his  darkest  moments  steal. 

Earth  is  for  labor  —  for  the  body's  strife 

With  passions  that  disturb  the  spirit's  life  ; 

For  noble  exercise  of  lofty  powers  ; 

For  strewing  life's  dark  desert-paths  with  flowers  ; 

And  when  we  faint,  or  feel  our  labors  vain, 

A  voice  from  heaven  renerves  our  souls  again,  — 

"  Work  while  the  day  is  thine  !    Be  strong,  be  brave ! 

There  will  be  rest  enough  within  the  grave." 
1845. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  191 

SONG. 

MY  heart  is  an  Eolian  lyre 

That  thrills  to  every  passing  breath  ; 
Now  touched  as  with  seraphic  fire, 

Now  wailing  like  the  voice  of  death. 
Old  memories  come,  like  vernal  airs, 

And  wake  long  silent  songs  of  love  ; 
And  buried  hopes,  and  early  prayers, 

Like  vesper  music  o'er  it  move. 
And  like  the  softest  southern  gale, 

Thy  love,  mine  own,  sweeps  o'er  its  strings, 
And  sweeter  than  a  minstrel's  tale, 

From  every  chord  new  music  springs. 

Deep,  sometimes,  as  an  organ's  tone, 

An  anthem  bursts  at  every  touch ; 
O,  leave  it  then  with  God  alone  ! 

For  God  alone  can  waken  such. 

My  heart  is  an  Eolian  lyre, 

That  wakes  and  sings  at  every  breath, 

Now  touched  as  with  seraphic  fire, 

Now  wailing  like  the  voice  of  death. 
1845. 


THE   NEW  HOME. 

A  BLESSING  on  this  cottage  home  ! 

And  on  these  green,  o'erhanging  trees, 
Whence  the  sweet,  balmy  perfumes  come, 

Borne  down  upon  the  summer  breeze. 
A  blessing  on  this  threshold  fall, 

A  blessing  on  this  lowly  roof ! 
Here,  free  from  Fashion's  gilded  thrall, 

We  '11  dwell  from  worldly  Pride  aloof. 

Here  quiet  like  a  dove  shall  brood, 

And  build  in  every  heart  a  nest ; 
Here  shall  a  social  solitude 

Pervade  and  hallow  every  breast. 
We  '11  plant  the  roses  by  the  door, 

Where  throws  the  sun  his  golden  darts  ; 
But  more  —  ah,  we  will  strive  for  more, 

To  plant  bright  roses  in  our  hearts. 


192  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

Below  us,  in  the  verdant  glen, 

Our  little  favorite  Bow  Brook  glides, 
As  fresh  and  beautiful  as  when 

We  earliest  trod  its  grassy  sides. 
There  still  the  wild  rose  blooms  as  free, 

As  gayly  still  the  blue-bird  sings  ; 
Still  'raid  the  clover  hums  the  bee, 

And  stores  the  honey  'neath  his  wings. 

The  alder  copse  along  the  shore, 

Winds  in  and  out  with  native  grace  ; 
And  gadding  shrubs  and  vines  creep  o'er 

And  on  the  topmost  boughs  embrace. 
The  little  meadow  lies  below, 

Half  hidden  by  the  circling  trees  ; 
One  moment  in  a  sunny  glow, 

Then  veiled  in  shadow  by  the  breeze. 

But  these  are  only  outward  scenes, 

Which  suit  some  cloudless  summer  day  ; 
When  winter  darkly  intervenes, 

What  then  shall  while  the  hours  away  1 
Ah,  Shakspeare,  kind  old  bard,  will  cheer 

Our  fireside  with  some  mirthful  tale, 
Or  with  the  wanderings  of  poor  Lear, 

Make  tears  in  laughter's  place  prevail. 

Then  Burns  his  tender  lays  shall  sing, 

Until  our  hearts  grow  soft  and  warm  ; 
While  o'er  our  roof  the  Northern  King 

Rides  muffled  in  the  fleecy  storm. 
And  if  those  hearts  shall  keenly  feel 

The  chastening  of  some  heavy  rod, 
From  lightsome  mirth  we  '11  softly  steal, 

And  read  alone  the  word  of  God. 

Then  blessings  on  our  threshold  rest. 

That  whosoe'er  shall  o'er  it  tread, 
May  feel  bright  sunshine  in  his  breast, 

And  gladness  round  his  being  spread  ! 
Ne'er  hence  shall  be  the  beggar  thrust, 

Ne'er  welcomed  be  the  oppressor  in  ; 
So  God  shall  hold  it  in  his  trust, 

And  guard  it  evermore  from  sin. 
1845. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  193 

ROSABELLE. 

WHERE  the  wood-anemones  rose  and  fell 
O'er  the  mossy  turf,  in  the  wind's  low  swell ; 
Where  the  dew-drops  lay  in  the  violet's  cup 
Till  high  in  the  zenith  the  sun  rose  up  ; 
Where  the  sunbeams  entered  through  veils  of  green, 
And  fell  on  the  brooks  with  a  softened  sheen ; 
Where  the  song  of  the  robin  came  faint  and  sweet, 
From  the  far-off  fields  of  the  waving  wheat ; 
There,  in  that  shady  and  quiet  dell, 
Was  the  daily  haunt  of  young  Rosabelle ! 

The  spring  whose  waters  were  dripping  by 

Was  not  more  clear  than  her  hazel  eye  ; 

And  the  cardinal  flower  that  in  autumn  grew 

Where  the  bank  was  now  with  young  violets  blue, 

Had  never  a  color  could  half  eclipse 

The  brilliant  red  of  her  dimpled  lips. 

Her  voice  !   't  was  the  voice  of  a  bird  just  flown, 

When  the  distance  has  softened  its  clear,  shrill  tone  • 

When  it  blends  with  the  sigh  of  the  waving  pine, 

Up,  far  up  in  the  warm  sunshine  ! 

But  Nature,  that  rivalled  her  lip  and  eye, 

That  echoed  her  voice  in  its  own  sweet  sigh, 

Had  never  a  symbol  in  glade  or  bower, 

In  the  sunniest  fount  or  the  fairest  flower, 

Could  half  the  beauty  or  brightness  tell 

Of  the  lofty  soul  of  young  Rosabelle  ! 

Here  came  she,  not  for  the  flowers  alone, 
Though  these  a  spell  o'er  her  heart  had  thrown ; 
Nor  stole  she  away  to  this  lonely  glen 
In  dark  distrust  of  the  hearts  of  men  ; 
Nay,  it  was  love,  't  was  the  pure,  high  love 
Which  angels  feel  in  the  realms  above  ; 
'T  was  love  for  the  beautiful,  true  and  good, 
That  filled  her  soul  in  that  quiet  wood. 
Oft  mid  the  silence  and  holy  calm, 
Of  a  light  half  shadow,  an  air  all  balm, 
She  sought  with  the  ardor  of  hopeful  youth, 
The  holy  counsels  of  God  and  Truth. 
To  seek  out  want,  and  relieve  distress, 
To  guide  and  strengthen,  to  love  and  bless. 
17 


194  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

To  lift  the  fallen,  and  speak  of  peace 
In  a  world  where  the  errors  of  this  life  cease  ; 
These  were  the  aims  that  from  day  to  day 
Over  her  spirit  gained  stronger  sway, 
And  drew  for  prayer  to  the  woodland  dell 
The  sunny  heart  of  young  Rosahelle  ! 
1845. 


TO   THE   MORNING  WIND. 

HASTE  with  thy  message,  carrier  breeze, 
While  yet  the  dew  is  on  thy  wing  ; 

But  pause  amid  my  native  trees 
A  little  while,  to  sing  ! 

Into  my  Mary's  chamber  steal, 

And  on  her  pillow  leave  my  kiss, 
That  her  soft  cheek  at  night  may  feel 

A  gentle  thrill  of  bliss. 
Pause  by  my  native  stream  and  lave 

Thy  bosom  in  its  silvery  tide, 
Or  o'er  the  blue  and  tranquil  wave 

In  sunny  dimples  glide. 

Through  the  old  woods  thy  journey  take, 
And  from  its  flowers  their  perfumes  bear, 

Yet,  in  return,  sweet  sounds  awake, 
For  Mary  may  be  there  ! 

Thence,  with  a  sunbeam's  speed,  away 
O'er  many  a  field  and  dazzling  stream  ! 

Pause  not  amid  the  grass  to  play, 
Nor  where  the  lilies  gleam. 

At  close  of  day  thy  pinions  fold  ; 

Upon  my  loved  one's  bosom  lie  ; 
Nestle  amid  his  locks  of  gold, 

And  kiss  his  soft  blue  eye. 

Breathe  health  through  every  beating  vein, 

And  murmur  sweetly  in  his  ear, 
(To  charm  away  his  weary  pain,) 

The  name  he  loves  to  hear. 
1845. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  195 

VOICE   TO   A  PILGRIM. 

FROM    HIS    GUARDIAN    SPIRIT. 

"  The  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone,  appears  to  me  sometimes  a  valley 
of  shadows." 

DEAR  Pilgrim,  not  alone  shall  be  thy  journey, 
Nor  through  the  valley  shall  thy  pathway  lie  ; 

Thy  future  track,  though  strewn  with  rocks  and  thorny, 
Up  through  the  mountain  mists  ascendeth  high. 

And  on  those  mists  shall  fall  a  golden  beauty, 
And  rainbow  hues  shall  span  the  weary  way, 

And  in  thy  heart  shall  shine  the  light  of  duty, 
And  on  thy  brow  shall  fall  love's  glittering  spray. 

And  like  the  music  of  a  hidden  river, 

Winding  its  way  beneath  some  verdant  arch, 

Shall  sound  within  thy  spirit's  depths  forever, 
A  voice,  to  cheer  thee  in  thy  toilsome  march. 

A  voice  whose  tenderness  shall  never  falter, 

Never  until  in  death's  deep  silence  lost; 
Which  shall  breathe  worship  at  thy  spirit's  altar 

Through  every  struggle,  and  at  every  cost. 

And,  Pilgrim,  shouldst  thou  hear  Fame's  clarion  ringing, 
High  up  the  summit  where  thy  footsteps  tend, 

O,  be  not  heedless  of  this  low  voice  singing  — 
This  low  voice  of  thy  true  and  faithful  friend. 

If  in  thy  spirit  dwells  one  loved  ideal, 

One  vision  to  thy  gentle  nature  dear, 
O,  give  it  power  to  soothe  the  rough  and  real,  — 

Let  it  have  skill  thy  weary  heart  to  cheer. 

If  in  the  inner  shrine  of  thy  pure  being, 

This  vision  like  a  guardian  spirit  dwell, 
What  matters  it  though  time,  too  swiftly  fleeing, 

Bring  thee,  erewhile,  a  long  and  sad  farewell? 

Thou  shalt  not  be  alone  while  love  is  with  thee, 

While  its  pure  prayers  are  round  thee  fondly  thrown  ; 

Like  some  good  angel  it  will  soar  beneath  thee 
To  bear  thee  up  ;  —  thou  shalt  not  be  alone. 


196  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

Nay,  not  alone.     The  pure,  the  good,  the  gifted, 
Dwell  in  a  world  with  blessed  angels  rife  ; 

Above  the  lower  crowd  by  God  uplifted, 
They  lead  a  high,  but  not  a  lonely  life. 

And  so,  dear  Pilgrim,  by  pure  thoughts  attended, 
And  generous  deeds,  those  harvesters  of  bliss, 

And  Love,  with  not  one  selfish  feeling  blended, 
Content  to  ask  alone  thy  happiness  ; 

By  these,  and  God's  own  presence  in  thy  spirit, 
Thou  shalt  be  guided  on  thine  upward  way  ; 

The  crown  is  there  —  and  that  thou  win  and  wear  it, 

Thy  guardian  spirit  will  not  cease  to  pray. 
1845. 


"CHARLOTTE." 

MBS.  CHARLOTTE  A.  JEHAULD,  a  writer  dear  to  the  hearts  of  the  Univer- 
salist  denomination,  departed  this  life  on  the  second  day  of  August,  aged  25 
years.  In  a  letter,  dated  a  fortnight  previous  to  her  death,  she  writes  as 
follows : 

"  I  am  longing  to  get  into  the  country,  to  smell  the  green  trees  and  Jhe 
fresh  air:  and  sometimes  I  get  so  tired  of  waiting  to  go.  that  it  seems  as  if  I 
were  destined  to  die  in  the  dust  and  heat  of  this  crowded  city,  pining  for  the 
breath  of  flowers.  In  the  cold,  stormy  days  of  winter,  I  always  shrink  fear 
fully  from  the  thoughts  of  death,  and  the  cold,  damp,  snow-covered  grave ; 
but  in  the  burning  days  of  summer  it  wears  a  different  aspect,  and  one  can 
think,  with  a  feeling  akin  to  pleasure,  of  its  cool,  dark,  flower-wreathed 
chambers." 

THY  wi§h  is  granted,  dearest ;  thou  art  gone 
To  the  green  fields  and  freshly  breathing  air, 

Where  ever  round  thee  plays  the  breeze  of  morn, 
And  waving  shadows  fleck  thy  dew-sprent  hair. 

The  flowers  at  thy  feet,  —  the  dear-loved  flowers  ; 

Young  violets,  scented  with  the  breath  of  heaven, 
And  radiant  lilies,  and  o'erhanging  bowers 

Of  loveliest  roses,  shedding  dews  at  even  ! 

Amid  them,  fairest  blossom  of  them  all, 

Thy  child ,  thy  love-flower,  sports  the  hours  away  : 

No  shadow  on  its  heart  will  ever  gall, 
No  raging  sin,  nor  wasting,  slow  decay  ! 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  197 

Why  should  I  weep  for  thee  ?     /  have  not  wept ! 

For  though  fond  hearts  and  holy  ties  were  riven, 
I  could  not  mourn  that  thy  tired  body  slept, 

And  that  thy  spirit  had  gone  home  to  heaven  ! 

In  summer,  when  the  earth  was  fair  with  flowers, 
When  zephyrs  whispered  'mid  the  green  old  trees, 

When  there  was  music  in  the  vine-wreathed  bowers, 
Shed  from  the  wings  of  humming-birds  and  bees  ; 

When  all  was  beautiful  in  earth  and  sky, 

And  thou,  grown  weary  with  thy  pain  and  dread, 

Felt  how  serene  and  blest  it  were  to  lie 

In  "  the  cool,  flower- wreathed  chambers  of  the  dead.1" 

Then  God,  thy  Father,  heard  thy  murmured  prayer; 

Home  to  his  arms  he  took  his  weary  child, 
No  more  to  strive  with  sin,  or  pain,  or  care, 

A  spirit  glorified  and  undefiled  ! 
1845. 


THE   RETROSPECT. 

YES,  we  are  very  old,  Johnny, 

Our  locks  are  white  and  thin  ; 
We've  walked  together,  hand  in  hand, 

Full  threescore  years  and  ten. 
We  have  no  worldly  gear,  Johnny, 

Our  hearth  is  dim  and  cold  ; 
We  feel  a  stiffness  in  our  limbs  — 

We  feel  that  we  are  old  ! 

But  let  us  warm  our  hearts,  Johnny, 

At  the  old  burning  shrines, 
And  open  up  a  store  of  gold 

From  Memory's  wondrous  mines ; 
Let 's  talk  of  good  old  times,  Johnny, 

When  life  and  love  were  young, 
And  gay  as  birds  our  bounding  hearts 

Within  our  bosoms  sung. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  glen,  Johnny, 
And  the  little  gushing  brook  — 

Of  the  birds  upon  the  hazel  copse, 
And  violets  in  the  nook. 
17* 


198  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

I  am  thinking  how  we  met,  Johnny, 

Upon  the  little  bridge  ; 
You  had  a  garland  on  your  arm 

Of  flag-flowers  and  of  sedge. 

You  placed  it  in  my  hand,  Johnny. 

And  held  my  hand  in  yours ; 
You  only  thought  of  that,  Johnny, 

But  talked  about  the  flowers. 
We  lingered  long  alone,  Johnny, 

Above  that  shaded  stream  ; 
We  stood  as  though  we  were  entranced 

In  some  delicious  dream. 

It  was  not  all  a  dream,  Johnny, 

The  love  we  thought  of  then, 
For  it  hath  been  our  life  and  light 

For  threescore  years  and  ten. 
But  ah  !  we  dared  not  speak  it, 

Though  it  lit  our  cheeks  and  eyes ; 
So  we  talked  about  the  news,  Johnny, 

The  weather  and  the  skies. 

At  last  I  said  "  Good  night,"  Johnny, 

And  turned  to  cross  the  bridge, 
Still  holding  in  my  trembling  hand 

The  pretty  wreath  of  sedge. 
But  you  came  on  behind,  Johnny, 

And  drew  my  arm  in  yours, 
And  said,  "  You  must  not  go  alone 

Across  the  barren  moors." 

O,  had  they  been  all  flowers,  Johnny, 

And  full  of  singing  birds, 
They  could  not  have  seemed  fairer 

Than  when  listening  to  those  words ! 
The  new  moon  shone  above,  Johnny, 

The  sun  was  nearly  set, 
The  grass  that  crisped  beneath  our  feet 

The  dew  had  slightly  wet. 

One  robin,  late  abroad,  Johnny, 
Was  winging  to  its  nest ; 

I  seem  to  see  it  now,  Johnny, 
The  sunshine  on  its  breast. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  199 

You  put  your  arm  around  me, 

You  clasped  my  hand  in  yours, 
You  said,  "  So  let  me  guard  you 

Across  these  lonely  moors." 

At  length  we  reached  the  field,  Johnny, 

In  sight  of  father's  door  ; 
We  felt  that  we  must  part  here ; 

Our  eyes  were  running  o'er. 
You  saw  the  tears  in  mine,  Johnny, 

I  saw  the  tears  in  yours ; 
"  You  've  been  a  faithful  guard,  Johnny," 

I  said,  "  across  the  moors." 

Then  you  broke  forth  in  a  gush,  Johnny, 

Of  pure  and  honest  love, 
While  the  moon  looked  down  upon  you 

From  her  holy  throne  above, 
And  you  said,  "  We  need  a  guide,  Ellen, 

To  lead  us  o'er  Life's  moors ; 
I  've  chosen  you  for  mine,  Ellen, 

O,  would  that  I  were  yours !" 

We  parted  with  a  kiss,  Johnny, 

The  first,  but  not  the  last ; 
I  feel  the  rapture  of  it  yet, 

Though  threescore  years  have  passed ! 
And  you  kissed  my  golden  curls,  Johnny, 

That  now  are  silvery  gray, 
And  whispered,  "  We  are  one,  Ellen, 

Until  our  dying  day  !" 

That  dying  day  is  near,  Johnny, 

But  we  are  not  dismayed  ; 
We  have  but  one  dark  moor  to  cross, 

Why  need  we  be  afraid  ? 
We  've  had  a  hard  Life's  row,  Johnny, 

But  the  shore  is  near  at  hand  ; 
O,  sweet  the  rest  that  waits  us  now 

In  Love's  own  Holy  Land  ! 

Cheer  up,  and  take  thy  staff,  Johnny, 

The  good,  stout  staff  of  faith  ; 
It  will  aid  thy  trembling  footsteps 

Adown  the  vale  of  death. 


200  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

We  're  very  poor  and  cold,  Johnny, 
But  God  is  rich  in  love  ; 

He  '11  give  us  food  and  raiment 
In  his  blessed  house  above ! 
1846. 


THE   FERRY. 

THE  Boatman  now  unmoors  his  bark, 

The  oar  is  tilting  in  his  hand  ; 
The  waters  roar,  the  way  is  dark, 

The  Maiden  fears  to  quit  the  land. 

"  Hark  !     'T  is  the  moaning  of  the  gale  ! 

Alas,  a  drear  and  perilous  night 
To  venture  in  a  bark  so  frail ! 

Wait,  Boatman,  wait  the  morning  light !" 

"  Abroad  !  abroad  !  I  may  not  stay  ; 

This  is  a  subterranean  stream, 
Ne'er  shone  on  by  the  morning  ray, 

Nor  open  to  the  evening  beam." 

Stern  was  his  voice,  his  look  severe ; 

The  Maiden  took  his  icy  hand ; 
It  thrilled  her  with  a  shivering  fear, 

It  dragged  her  rudely  from  the  strand. 

A  noise  of  waters  filled  her  ears ; 

A  dizzy  sense  of  rapid  flight, 
A  press  of  strange  and  awful  fears 

Bewildered  all  her  soul  and  sight. 

Silent  she  lay,  in  deep  despair ; 

The  bark  tossed  wildly  on  the  waves, 
And  o'er'her  brooded  everywhere, 

The  stifled  atmosphere  of  graves ! 

"  Lo,  I  am  with  thee  !"  and  an  arm 
Around  her  form,  was  gently  thrown  ; 

"  Look  up,  beloved  !     Fear  no  harm  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  cross  the  deep  alone  !" 

So  sweet  a  voice,  so  fair  a  brow 
Assured  the  Maiden's  failing  heart; 

"  Blessed  Redeemer  !     Is  it  Thou? 

I  'm  safe  with  thee,  where'er  thou  art !" 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  201 

A  golden  line  like  break  of  day 

Shone  brightly  through  the  quivering  gloom ; 
The  waves  grew  still,  and  o'er  their  way 

Soft  stole  the  breath  of  flowers  in  bloom. 

"  The  land !  the  land !"  the  Maiden  cried ; 

"  What  name  to  port  so  fair  is  given  1" 
"  It  is  OUR  HOME  !"  the  Lord  replied  ; 

"  Thy  home?     It  is !  — it  is,  then  —  HEAVEN  !" 
1846. 


MEMORY'S  PICTURE-GALLERY. 

A  SUNSET  glow,  a  sudden  light, 
Serene,  delicious,  warm,  and  ruddy, 

Falls  through  the  oriel,  richly  dight, 
Across  the  painter's  antique  study. 

I  wander  down  the  corridor 

In  breathless  awe  and  voiceless  wonder ; 
My  footsteps  echo  o'er  the  floor, 

Like  low  and  muttering  summer-thunder. 

Rich  pictures  fill  each  carved  niche, 
With  rare  and  precious  antique  facings ; 

And  all  the  walls  above  are  rich 

With  dark  and  curious  frescoed  tracings. 

One  picture  shows  an  ancient  mill ; 

The  willow-tree  hangs  lightly  o'er  it, 
While  with  a  queenly  pride  the  hill 

Swells  up  its  rounded  breast  before  it. 

And  like  a  young  lamb's  fleece,  the  stream 
Foams  soft  and  white  within  its  shadow  ; 

Or  gives,  by  many  a  fitful  gleam, 

The  gold-green  reflex  of  the  meadow. 

What  scene  is  this  ?     A  fairy  isle, 
Upon  a  bright,  blue,  mountain  river ; 

The  sunlit  waves  around  it  smile, 
The  aspens  o'er  it  droop  and  shiver. 

A  little  bark  is  moored  thereby  ; 

O,  fair  and  soft  the  hands  that  row  it ! 
And  dark  as  midnight  is  the  eye 

Of  sweet  Sheshequin's  gentle  poet ! 


202  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

Her  barque  'neath  flowery  shadows  floats, 
Its  sail  a  broad  and  starry  banner  ! 

While  softly  to  the  rower's  notes 

Chimes  in  the  low-voiced  Susquehanna  ! 

Here  runs  a  long,  long,  silent  line 
Of  startling,  glowing  human  faces ! 

O,  sure  the  hand  must  be  divine 

That  draws  these  wondrous,  burning  traces  ! 

And  here  —  ah,  pause  !  suspend  thy  breath ! 

A  glorious-eyed,  divine  young  creature, 
Yet  with  an  early,  mournful  death 

Soft  shadowed  forth  on  every  feature  ! 

I  leave  the  portraits.     They  bring  back 
Too  many  a  dead,  half  wasted  sorrow  ; 

Let  me  return  upon  my  track 

And  leave  old  faces  till  to-morrow  ! 

Amid  these  fairy  landscape  views, 
I  feel  the  joys  of  early  childhood. 

—  Hush  !  these  are  old  familiar  hues 

Brightening  this  autumn-lighted  wildwood  ! 

Where  am  1 1     I  have  known  this  stream  — 
This  narrow  bridge  —  these  elms,  o'erarching  ; 

Or  am  I,  in  a  haunted  dream, 

Through  Sleep's  long  picture-gallery  marching? 

Have  I  not  wandered  here  with  one 
Who  loves,  as  I  love,  gentle  Nature  ? 

I  see  him  now,  the  autumn  sun 
Enkindling  every  earnest  feature  ! 

This  painter's  colors  are  too  faint 

To  give  those  lineaments  completeness  ; 

0,  not  yet  he,  but  Love  shall  paint 

That  face  of  tender,  fervent  sweetness  ! 

Yonder  he  still  pursues  his  art  ; 

Lo,  see  him  now  !     Beneath  his  fingers 
What  beauty  gushes  from  his  heart  ! 

How  fondly  o'er  his  sketch  he  lingers  ! 

A  sweet  child,  with  a  woman's  brow, 

O'ershaded  by  soft  wavy  tresses ; 
Large,  angel  eyes,  and  lips  that  now 

Seem  made  for  dimples,  now  for  kisses  ! 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

He  paints  a  halo  round  her  head  !  — 
"  O,  painter !  with  a  hand  so  busy, 

What  angel  pain  test  thou  1"     He  said 
With  touching  love,  "  The  angel  Lizzy." 

Still  roam  I  through  this  corridor, 
In  breathless  awe  and  voiceless  wonder  : 

My  footsteps  echo  o'er  the  floor, 

Like  low  and  muttering  summer-thunder. 

And  still  the  painter  at  his  art 

Toils  ever,  some  bright  picture  shading, 
Until  the  gallery  of  the  heart 

Overflows  with  images  unfading  ! 
1846. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  DEATH  SCENE. 

HIGH  stream  the  crimson  banners  of  the  west 
Over  the  monarch,  sinking  to  his  rest ; 
Purple  and  scarlet,  royal  blue  and  gold, 
Droop  o'er  his  couch  in  many  a  heavy  fold  ; 
The  moon  dips  low  her  silver  horn  to  shed 
Soft,  dreamy  rays  upon  her  sovereign's  head  ; 
And  brooks,  and  birds,  and  breezes  sweetly  sing 
Their  low-toned  vespers  round  the  slumbering  king. 

One  parting  glance  the  weary  day-god  throws  ; 
See  !     How  along  the  mountain  ridge  it  glows, 
Shoots  through  the  forest  aisles,  transmutes  the  rills, 
And  kindles  up  the  old  rock-crested  hills  ! 
It  falls  upon  a  peaceful  woodland  scene  — 
It  lights  the  moaning  brook  and  banks  of  green, 
Streams  o'er  the  Beggar's  long,  loose,  silvery  hair, 
Who,  dying,  lies  upon  the  greensward  there  ! 

All  day  in  weakness,  weariness,  and  pain, 
The  old  Man  'neath  those  drooping  boughs  hath  lain  ; 
The  birds  above  him  singing,  and  the  breeze 
Rustling  th'  abundant  foliage  of  the  trees ; 
The  wildflowers  o'er  him  bending,  and  the  air 
Stroking  with  gentle  touch  his  long  white  hair ; 
The  bees  around  him  murmuring,  and  the  stream 
Mingling  its  music  with  his  dying  dream. 


204  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

O,  many  a  morn  those  forest  arches  dim 

Have  echoed  back  his  old,  majestic  hymn  ; 

And  many  an  eve  the  breeze  that  stroked  his  hair 

Hath  borne  to  heaven  his  low,  confiding  prayer  ! 

No  ostentation  in  such  worship,  paid 

In  the  lone  silence  of  the  deep  green  shade  ; 

Where  none  could  hear  but  God,  and  none  could  see 

But  the  still  flowers  and  the  o'ershadowing  tree  ! 

Upon  those  cheeks,  so  withered,  pale,  and  lean, 
Some  tears  the  woodland  solitudes  have  seen  ; 
But  smiles  were  more  familiar  there,  and  proved 
The  sweetness  of  a  heart  that  served  and  loved. 
Now  tears  and  smiles  alike  had  passed  away  ; 
Solemn,  yet  beautiful,  the  old  man  lay, 
His  eyes  serenely  gazing  on  the  sky, 
His  pale  hands  folded  —  ready  thus  to  die. 

A  vision  blessed  him  !     Through  his  silver  hair 
He  felt  the  touch  of  fingers,  soft  and  fair, 
And  o'er  him  flowed  the  glory  of  an  eye 
Outshining  all  the  blueness  of  the  sky. 
"  Sweet,  sainted  One  !  and  dost  thou  love  me  yet? 
I  knew,  I  knew  thou  couldst  not  quite  forget ! 
I  knew,  I  knew  that  thou  wouldst  come  at  last 
To  kiss  my  lips  and  tell  me  all  is  past !" 

A  glow  of  transport  lit  his  closing  eye  ; 
He  raised  his  arms  exulting  toward  the  sky  ; 
A  rosy  tint  like  morning's  earliest  streak 
Flushed  in  celestial  softness  o'er  his  cheek, 
Then  paled  away  ;  the  sunbeam  too  that  shone 
Upon  his  reverend  head  had  softly  gone. 
Then  stooped  the  vision,  clasped  him  to  her  breast, 
And  bore  his  spirit  up  to  endless  rest. 

There  was  no  tolling  of  church-bells  that  hour  ; 
No  funeral  banner  waved  from  hill  or  tower  ; 
Far  in  the  forest  loneliness  away, 
Unwept  of  men,  the  ruined  temple  lay. 
O,  what  would  all  earth's  pageantries  avail 
The  spirit  whom  the  harps  of  angels  hail ! 
The  solemn  dirge,  the  dismal  knell  were  Tain 
To  him  who  lives  and  clasps  his  love  again  ! 


POETICAL    SELECTIONS.  205 

That  night  the  stars  were  watchers  of  the  dead  ! 
That  night  a  snowy  shroud  of  flowers  was  spread 
By  the  soft  breezes  o'er  his  still,  cold  breast. 
No  breaking  sobs  disturbed  the  sleeper's  rest. 
O,  who  will  miss  the  old  Man  from  the  earth  ? 
None,  save  the  winds  and  stars  ;  though  at  some  hearth 
Some  voice  may  say,  "  I  have  not  seen,  of  late, 
The  old  gray  Beggar  standing  at  our  gate !" 
1846. 


THE  RAILROAD  FLOWER. 

A  LITTLE  flower  of  lustrous  blue 
Within  a  public  rail-track  grew. 
A  Poet,  passing,  in  surprise, 
Fixed  on  it  his  reproachful  eyes. 

"  Oh  wherefore  here,  in  dust  and  heat, 
Should  dwell  a  thing  so  pure  and  sweet  ? 
Thy  home,  thou  gentle  flower,  should  be 
Far  off  beneath  some  greenwood  tree  ; 
Within  some  soft  and  perfumed  glade, 
All  spread  with  dew,  and  cool  with  shade  ; 
Where  thou  no  ruder  sound  shouldst  hear, 
Than  winds  and  waters  murmuring  near  ; 
Where  birds  should  sing  to  thee,  and  bees 
Should  bear  thy  sweets  upon  the  breeze." 

The  Flower  with  earnestness  replied, 
"  Where  God  has  placed  me,  I  abide, 
Content  in  some  way  to  impart 
Pure  feeling  to  one  worldly  heart ; 
Proud,  if  the  merchant,  worn  with  gain, 
Through  me  a  backward  glance  obtain, 
A  retrospect  of  joyous  youth, 
And  simple  wants  and  artless  truth  ; 
Prouder,  if  folly  in  the  maid 
Assume  from  me  a  thoughtful  shade  ; 
If  Sorrow,  weeping,  lift  her  eye 
By  my  example,  to  the  sky. 

"  And,  Poet,  now  one  word  to  thee  ; 
Where  should  thy  home  and  labor  be  ? 
18 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

Art  thou  repining  in  the  heat, 

For  some  more  lone  and  cool  retreat  ? 

Some  refuge  from  the  careless  throng, 

Where  thou  canst  feed  thy  soul  with  song? 

Oh  be  content,  where  God  requires, 

To  wake  thy  harp,  and  feed  thy  fires  ; 

And  if  some  worldly  notes  float  in, 

Some  echoes  of  the  ceaseless  din, 

Some  groans  from  bleeding  slaves,  and  cries 

From  infancy,  that  starving,  dies, 

Oh  deem  not  that  thy  strain,  young  bard, 

By  these  discordant  notes  is  marred  ; 

The  Master  Minstrel's  hand  through  such, 

Achieves,  they  say,  its  mightiest  touch  ; 

And  thou  mayst  shake  the  sturdiest  wrong, 

By  some  bold  outbreak  of  thy  song. 

Then  be  content,  where  God  requires, 

To  wake  thy  harp,  and  feed  thy  fires  '." 

The  Poet  stooped  and  kissed  the  1  lower, 
Wiser  and  better  from  that  hour. 
1847. 


SOUNDS  OF  SUMMER. 

SOFT  winds  murmuring  as  they  pass, 
Locusts  singing  in  the  grass, 
Rivers  through  the  meadows  rushing, 
Fountains  in  the  woodlands  gushing, 
Insects  humming  'mid  the  flowers, 
Sudden  falls  of  sunny  showers, 
Cascades  leaping  from  the  rocks, 
Tinkling  bells  among  the  flocks, 
Blackbirds  whistling  in  the  glen, 
Songs  of  sturdy  harvest  men, 
Rustlings  of  the  golden  grain, 
Creakings  of  the  loaded  wain, 
Robins  singing  round  the  porch, 
Swallows  twittering  on  the  church, 
Wild  duck  plashing  in  the  lakes, 
Croaking  frogs  among  the  brakes, 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  207 

Little  children,  at  their  play, 
Shouting  through  the  livelong  day, 
Echo  screaming  from  the  hills 
Every  idle  sound  it  wills, 
Flutterings  of  the  leafy  vines, 
Hollow  sighings  of  the  pines, 
Low  sounds  from  the  porous  earth 
Where  the  insects  have  their  birth, 
Distant  boomings  from  the  rocks, 
Far  off  groans  of  thunder  shocks. 
Rushings  of  the  sudden  gale 
Loaded  with  the  rattling  hail, 
Soft  subsidings  of  the  rain 
Dripping  o'er  the  prostrate  grain, 
These,  and  countless  sounds  like  these, 
Load  the  languid  summer  breeze, 
Coming  from  the  cool  blue  seas  ; 
These  throughout  the  growing  year, 
With  their  rich  abounding  cheer, 
Thrill  the  heart  and  flood  the  ear. 
1847. 


LEILA  GREY, 

A    BALLAD. 

THE  tassels  wave  upon  the  birch, 

The  maple  blushes  o'er  the  stream, 
And  through  the  oriel  of  the  church, 

I  see  the  May-moon's  yellow  beam. 
Oh  here,  upon  this  moss-grown  wall, 

Another  year,  another  May, 
I  saw  this  same  sweet  moonlight  fall 

On  me  and  Leila  Grey ! 

Cold  lay  her  languid  hand  in  mine, 
Pale,  pale  her  face  beside  me  shone ; 

"  Sweet  Leila  Grey,  as  I  am  thine, 
Say,  say  that  thou  art  all  mine  own  !" 

She  smiled  —  she  sighed,  —  "  Behold,"  she  said, 

"  Where  from  the  church  tower  darkly  thrown, 

The  shadow  of  the  cross  lies  spread 
By  yon  sepulchral  stone. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

"  There,  ere  the  May-moon  comes  again, 

The  hand  that  presses  thine  will  lie ; 
Before  the  reaper  cuts  the  grain, 

The  death-mist  will  o'ercloud  my  eye. 
But  oh,  dear  Willie,  do  not  weep, 

For  I  am  weary,  weary  here ! 
And  fain  beneath  yon  cross  would  sleep, 

Before  another  year ! 

"  But  when  another  May  returns, 

And  through  the  oriel  of  the  church, 
The  golden  moonlight  dimly  burns, 

And  lights  the  tassels  of  the  birch  ; 
When  yonder  maple  by  the  tower, 

Stands  blushing  like  a  virgin  bride, 
Oh  come,  dear  Willie,  at  this  hour, 

And  seat  thee  by  my  side !" 

Sweet  Leila !  I  obey  thy  call ; 

The  May-moon  lights  the  tasseled  birch, 
And  I  upon  the  moss-grown  wall, 

Am  sitting  near  the  gray  old  church  ; 
The  shadow  of  the  cross  is  thrown, 

Where  gleams  a  marble  tablet  now  — 
'T  was  all  the  same  twelve  months  agone  — 

But  Leila,  where  art  thou? 
1847. 


UDOLLO. 

So  sweet  the  fount  of  Thura  sings, 
'T  is  said  below  a  Maid  there  is, 

Who  strikes  a  lyre  of  silver  strings 
To  spirit  symphonies. 

A  Youth  once  sought  that  fountain's  side, 

Udollo  of  the  golden  hair  ; 
He  cast  a  garland  in  the  tide, 

And  thus  invoked  the  Maiden  there 

"  Oh,  Maid  of  Thura,  from  thy  halls 

Of  gleaming  crystal,  deign  to  rise ! 
The  golden-haired  Udollo  calls, 

And  yearns  to  gaze  within  thine  eyes. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  209 

Fain  would  he  touch  that  magic  lyre 

Whose  echoes  he  has  heard  above, 
And  kindle  every  dulcet  wire 

With  an  adoring,  burning  love. 
Come,  Maid  of  Thura,  from  thy  halls ; 

The  golden-haired  Udollo  calls !" 

"  Youth  of  the  flaming,  lucent  eye, 

Youth  of  the  lily  hand  and  brow, 
Udollo  !  I  have  heard  thy  cry, 
I  rise  before  thee  now !" 

"  Oh  Maid,  with  eyes  of  river-blue, 

With  amber  tresses  dropt  with  gold, 
With  foam-white  bosom,  veiled  from  view 

Too  closely  by  the  rainbow's  fold ; 
Oh  Maid  of  Thura !  let  my  hand 

Receive  from  thine  the  silver  lyre ; 
Athwart  thy  white  arm,  Iris-spanned, 

I  see  one  glittering,  trembling  wire ! 
That  trembling  wire  I  would  invoke, 

Ere  to  thy  touch  it  cease  to  quiver ; 
The  strain  by  thy  sweet  fingers  woke, 

I  would  prolong  forever!" 

"  Udollo,  heed !    The  mortal  hand, 

That  o'er  that  lone  chord  dare  to  stray, 
Shall  light  a  flaming,  quenchless  brand 

To  burn  his  very  heart  away. 
Yet  take  the  lyre  !  and  I  thy  flowers 

Will  wear  upon  my  heart  forever ; 
That  heart,  henceforth,  through  long,  lone  hours, 

In  silent  woe  must  bleed  and  quiver ! 
Enough,  if  thou,  oh  beauteous  love, 

Shalt  find  delight  in  Thura's  lyre  ; 
Thy  hand  'mid  all  its  strings  may  rove, 

But  oh,  wake  not  the  fatal  wire  !" 

The  youth,  whose  eye  with  rapture  glowed, 
Quick  seized  the  lyre  from  Thura's  hand ; 

How  silent  at  that  moment  flowed 
The  Fountain  o'er  the  listening  sand  ! 

Upon  his  coal-black  steed  he  leapt, 

Struck  gayly  through  the  ringing  wood, 
18* 


210  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

And,  as  he  went,  he  boldly  swept 
His  lyre  to  every  passing  mood. 

But  hark !  a  low  sweet  symphony, 

Rose  softly  from  the  charmed  wire ; 
Unlike  all  mortal  harmony, 

Unlike  all  human  fire. 
Hope,  eager  hope  —  love,  burning  love, 

Desire,  the  pure,  the  high  desire, 
And  joy,  and  all  the  thoughts  that  move, 

Gushed  wildly  from  that  lyre ! 

And  as  Udollo's  music  died 

Amid  the  columned  aisles  away, 
That  wondrous  chord  swelled  far  and  wide 

Its  sweet  and  ravishing  lay  ! 
Still  grew,  at  last  the  trembling  string  ; 

Its  wandering  echoes  back  returned, 
And  round  the  lone  chord  gathering, 

In  visible  glory  burned ! 

But  in  Udollo's  soul  died  not 

The  echoes  of  the  golden  strain ; 
A.  love  —  a  woe  —  he  knew  not  what, 

Flamed  up  within  his  brain ! 
But  never  more  his  hand  could  wake, 

By  roving  'mid  its  sister  wires, 
The  string  whose  symphony  could  shake 

His  spirit  to  its  central  fires  ! 

But  sometimes  when,  all  calm  above, 

The  moon  bent  o'er  its  gleaming  strings, 
A  strain  of  soft,  entrancing  love 

Waved  o'er  him  like  a  seraph's  wings. 
And  sometimes,  when  the  midnight  gloom 

Allowed  no  wandering  ray  of  light, 
A  deep,  low  music  filled  the  room, 

And  almost  flamed  upon  his  sight. 

And  for  this  rare  and  fitful  strain 
He  waited  with  intense  desire ; 

There  centred,  in  delirious  pain, 
His  spirit's  all  devouring  fire. 

As  round  one  glowing  point  on  high, 
We  sometimes  mark  th'  electric  light, 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  211 

From  the  whole  bosom  of  the  sky, 

In  one  bright,  flaming  crown  unite, 
So  round  that  inward,  fixed  desire, 

Concentred  all  Udollo's  life  : 
His  dark  eye  glowed  with  molten  fire, 

Beneath  the  fevered  strife. 

One  night,  when  long  the  lyre  had  slept, 

Udollo's  passion,  like  a  sea 
Of  red-hot  lava,  madly  swept 

His  soul  on  to  its  destiny. 
In  the  deep  blackness  of  the  hour 

When  spectres  walk,  he  seized  the  lyre, 
And  with  a  seraph's  tuneful  power, 

Awoke  the  fatal  wire ! 
Oh !  Thura's  Maid,  where  wert  thou,  then, 

When  mortal  hand  presumed  to  strike 
The  chords  that  only  gods,  not  men, 

Have  power  to  waken  as  they  like  ? 

A  fire  shot  through  Udollo's  frame, 

As  shoots  the  lightning's  forked  dart ; 
It  lit  a  hot  and  smothered  flame 

Within  his  deepest  heart. 
He  felt  it  in  its  slow,  sure  path 

Consume  his  quivering  nerves  away ; 
Oh  could  he  but  have  checked  its  wrath, 

Or  ceased  that  fearful  strain  to  play ! 
His  fingers,  cleaving  to  the  wire, 

Had  lost  communion  with  his  will ; 
Within  him  burnt  th'  Immortal  Fire, 

The  Heart  —  the  Life-Destroyer  still ! 

Days,  weeks,  and  months  whirled  on,  and  on ; 

No  hope  by  day,  nor  rest  by  night ; 
Only  the  same  wild,  frantic  tone 

Increasing  in  its  woful  might. 
Intensely  still,  like  lonely  stars 

Far  off  in  some  black  crypt  of  sky, 
Like  Sirius,  or  like  fiery  Mars, 

Glowed  wild  Udollo's  eye. 
His  form  to  shadowy  hue  and  line 

Slow  shrunk  and  faded,  day  by  day ; 


212  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

He  seemed  like  some  corroded  shrine, 
Eaten  by  liquid  fire  away. 

At  last,  in  utter  wreck  and  woe, 

Back  to  the  fountain's  brink  he  crept,— 

His  golden  hair  —  now  white  as  snow — 
Far  down  his  bosom  swept. 

Silent  the  clouded  waters  flowed  ; 

The  silver  sand  was  washed  away  ; 
No  lily  on  its  borders  blowed ; 

In  lonely  gloom  it  lay. 

"  Oh  Maid  of  Thura !  hear  my  cry  ; 

Back  to  thy  hands  thy  lyre  I  bring ; 
Take  it !  oh  take  it,  ere  I  die, 

For  heart  and  soul  are  perishing  !" 

No  form  uprose,  no  murmur  stole 
Responsive  from  the  gloomy  tide : 

Hoarsely  he  heard  the  waters  roll  — 
Faintly  the  low  winds  sighed. 

He  sank  upon  the  fountain's  brink ; 

His  hand  fell  listless  on  the  wave  ; 
He  heard  the  lyre,  slow  bubbling,  sink, 

Deep  in  its  liquid  grave. 

The  fire  went  out  within  his  breast — 
The  tremor  of  his  nerves  was  still ; 

As  peacefully  he  sank  to  rest, 
As  a  tired  infant  will. 

A  radiant  bow  of  sun  and  dew, 

Of  blended  vapors,  white  and  red, 
Up  from  the  fountain's  bosom  flew, 

And  hung  its  beauty  o'er  his  head. 
And  from  the  waves  a  strain  uprose, 

Delicious  as  an  angel's  song ; 
And  this  the  burden  at  its  close  ;  — 
"  How  sweet  such  dreamless,  deep  repose, 

To  those  who  sin  and  suffer  long !" 
1847 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  213 

THE   LORD  DE   BEACJMONAIRE. 

DEEP  lies  the  Chapel  of  St.  Clair, 
Amid  the  trees  of  Arnau  Vale  ; 
The  cross  upon  its  gothic  frame, 
Olows  brighter  than  the  clouds  of  flame 
That  o'er  it,  in  the  sunset  air, 
Serenely  sail. 

A  road  winds  downward  from  the  tower, 

Whose  turrets,  in  the  crimson  flood, 
Shoot  up  like  peaks  of  solid  fire, 
Above  the  woodland's  tallest  spire, 
And  shed  a  soft  and  radiant  shower 
Around  the  wood. 

Down  from  the  castle's  craggy  heights, 

Rides  Archibald  de  Beaumonaire  ; 
Far  tower  the  black  plumes  of  his  crest 
Above  the  tallest  and  the  best 
Of  all  the  hundred  valiant  knights, 
Around  him  there ! 

A  mellow  bugle  peal  descends, 

And  rings,  reechoing  through  the  dale  ; 
Behold  the  escort  of  the  bride  ! 
On  glittering  steeds  the  horsemen  ride  ; 
Swiftly  the  gay  procession  wends 
To  Arnau  Vale. 

The  chapel  bell  a  joyous  peal 

Rings  out,  the  bridal  train  to  greet ; 
They  come,  the  glittering  cavalcade, 
The  haughty  lord,  the  highborn  maid  ; 
Through  the  green  yard  the  horses  wheel 
With  glancing  feet. 

Behind  the  altar  stands  the  priest ; 

Before  it,  Lord  de  Beaumonaire  ; 
An  old  earl  leads  the  graceful  bride 
And  leaves  her  at  the  young  lord's  side  ; 
The  bell's,  the  bugle's  peal  have  ceased  ; 
They  kneel  in  prayer. 

What  hears  the  Lord  de  Beaumonaire, 
That  makes  his  iron  brain  to  swim  t 


2M  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

The  rumbling  of  the  moss-grown  millf 
The  gushing  of  the  silvery  rill, 

Are  all  the  sounds  of  the  solemn  air 
Will  waft  to  him. 

His  thoughts  are  with  the  summer  day, 
When  first,  beside  that  sunny  stream, 
He  met  the  mill  maid  gathering  blooms  ; 
He  wove  them  'mid  his  raven  plumes, 
And  stole  her  spotless  heart  away. 
—  How  sweet  the  dream  I 

He  hears  not  Lady  Clara  vow 

The  troth  that  death  alone  can  part ; 
He  hears  the  sweet  young  mill  maid  say, 
"  Oh,  cast  me,  cast  me  not  away  !" 
A  cold  dew  gushes  from  his  brow, 
Blood  crowds  his  heart ! 

Slowly  the  cavalcade  returns  ; 

Weary  the  march  up  yonder  height ; 
The  raven  on  the  tombstone  croaks  ; 
The  screech-owl  wails  amid  the  oaks  ; 
The  tower  no  longer  glows  and  bums  ; 
Swift  falls  the  night ! 

Within  the  cottage,  pale  and  wan, 

The  sweet  young  mill  maid  dying  lay ; 
Her  wavy  curls  of  paley  gold 
Adown  her  marble  shoulders  rolled  ; 

She  seemed  like  some  young  snowy  swan 
Floating  away  ! 

"  Look  forth,  dear  mother  T  seest  thou  him?" 

"  Yes,  my  love,  he  mounts  the  steep  ;" 
"  Looks  he  bright,  and  tall,  and  fine  ? 
Do  his  eyes  and  tresses  shine?" 
"  No,  his  face  is  pale  and  grim  ; 
He  fain  would  weep  !" 

"  Poor  dear  Lord  Archibald  !"  she  cried ; 

"  I  do  forgive  him  all  his  wrong  ; 
So  tell  him,  dearest  mother  !     Say 
With  what  deep  tenderness  I  pray"  — 
More  she  would  have  said,  but  died 
'Mid  her  swan-song. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  215 

Slowly  tolled  the  chapel  bell ; 

On  its  cross  the  moonlight  shone  ; 
The  mill  was  hushed,  low  sang  the  rill ; 
The  birds,  the  bees,  the  winds  were  still ; 
An  aged  pair  walked  through  the  dell, 
Faint  and  alone. 

They  enter  through  the  chapel  door  ; 
The  priest  behind  the  altar  stands  ^ 
A  pall  the  altar  overspreads  ; 
The  taper  on  a  pale  form  sheds 

A  deathly  light.     The  priest  bends  o'er 
With  clasped  hands. 

"  Lord  God  !  forgive  the  sinful  man 

Whose  pride  hath  crushed  this  tender  flower  ; 
Comfort  this  weeping,  childless  pair 
Left  desolate  in  age  !"     This  prayer 

Was  heard  in  heaven.     Their  peace  began 
That  very  hour. 

Sir  Archibald  de  Beaumonaire 

Sat  moodily  beside  his  bride  ; 
He  gazed  out  from  his  gloomy  tower 
Upon  the  hushed  and  solemn  hour. 

The  knell  had  ceased  ;  the  awestruck  air 
Sobbed  low,  and  sighed. 

"  The  owl  is  still.     How  dismally 

The  silence  o'er  all  earth  is  thrown  ! 
How  motionless  all  objects  are  !" 
"  Not  all,  love.     Mark  yon  shooting  star  !" 
"It  is  no  star!" 

"What  can  it  be?" 
"A  spirit  flown!" 
1847. 


THE   OLD  MILL. 

BRIGHT  in  the  foreground  of  wood  and  hill, 
Close  by  the  banks  of  my  native  rill, 
Rumbling  early  ere  dawn  of  light, 
Rumbling  late  through  the  winter  night, 
When  ~'l  the  air  and  the  earth  is  still, 
Toileth  ana  &~oaneth  the  old  red  mill. 


216  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

Around  its  cupola,  tall  and  white, 
The  swallows  wheel,  in  their  summer  flight ; 
The  elm-trees  wave  o'er  its  mossy  roof, 
Keeping  their  boughs  from  its  touch  aloof, 
Although  four  stories  above  the  rill,i 
Towereth  aloft  the  old  red  mill. 

Idly  now  in  its  tower  is  swung 
The  brazen  bell  with  its  lolling  tongue  ; 
Above,  the  vane  on  the  rod-point  shows 
Which  way  the  wind,  in  its  changes,  blows  ; 
While  down  in  the  waters,  deep  and  still, 
Is  the  mirrored  face  of  the  old  red  mill. 

The  winds  through  its  empty  casements  sweep, 
Filling  its  halls  with  their  wailings  deep  ; 
Its  rotten  beams  in  the  tempest  sway  ; 
O'er  its  iron  rod  the  lightnings  play  ; 
Yet  brave  and  bold,  by  the  fair  green  hill, 
Like  a  bridegroom  standeth  the  old  red  mill. 

Fair  forms  once  moved  through  those  spacious  rooms, 
Fair  hands  once  tended  its  clattering  looms ; 
Those  walls,  with  the  spider's  tapestry  hung, 
With  the  music  and  laughter  of  youth  have  rung  ; 
But  now  the  song  and  the  laugh  are  still, 
In  the  upper  lofts  of  the  old  red  mill. 

But  down  below,  still  the  work  goes  on  ;  — 
In  the  groaning  vortex  the  "  waste"  is  thrown  ; 
While  heavily  turneth  the  ponderous  wheel, 
And  the  web  comes  forth  o'er  the  whirling  reel ; 
Good,  honest  service  it  doeth  still, 
That  shattered  and  windswept  old  red  mill ! 

And  one,  who  with  long  and  patient  care 
Kept  guardian  watch  o'er  the  labors  there, 
Who  at  early  morning,  and  evening  late, 
By  those  groaning  engines  was  wont  to  wait, 
That  he  with  comfort  his  home  might  fill, 
No  longer  treads  through  the  old  red  mill. 

No  more  we  see  him,  with  silvery  hair, 

Slowly  ascending  the  broken  stair 

That  leads  from  that  doorway,  with  rubbish  strewed, 

Up  the  steep  green  bank  to  the  village  road  ; 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  217 

Or,  pausing  awhile  on  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
Gaze  thoughtfully  down  on  the  old  red  mill. 

He  has  passed  away  with  his  kindly  smile, 
With  his  heart  so  cheerful  and  free  from  guile ; 
Sweet  is  his  memory,  sweet  and  dear 
To  the  friends  that  loved  him  while  he  was  here  ; 
And  long  will  the  deeps  of  our  being  thrill 
To  the  memories  linked  with  the  old  red  mill. 

The  sire  has  passed,  and  ah  !  not  alone, 
Another  link  from  our  chain  is  gone  ! 
Another,  whose  heart  of  love  is  cold  ; 
Whose  form  has  passed  to  the  dust  and  mould ; 
No  more  will  SHE  cross  our  cottage  sill, 
Or  gaze  with  us  on  the  old  red  mill. 

Then  let  old  Ruin  about  it  lurk  ; 
Let  it  rumble  on  in  its  daily  work. 
It  will  pass  away  as  they  have  passed, 
For  we  all  must  tottle  and  fall  at  last ! 
Well  would  it  be  could  we  each  fulfil 
As  patient  a  lot  as  the  old  red  mill ! 
1847. 


THE   CHURCH  BELL. 

MERRILY  rings  the  pealing  bell, 

Ding-a-ding !  dong ! 
Cheerily  sweeps  it  through  the  dell, 
Up  in  the  tree-top,  down  in  the  well, 

Ding-a-dong !  ding  ! 

High  through  the  welkin  it  floats  and  rings, 
Low  in  the  valley,  amid  the  springs, 
Dies  away  in  soft  murmurings  ; 

Ding-a-ding !  dong ! 

Through  the  boughs  of  the  graceful  birch 

Ding-a-ding !  dong  ! 
Gleams  the  door  of  the  ivied  porch, 
Leading  in  to  the  old  stone  church  ; 

Ding-a-dong !  ding ! 
19 


218  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

There  the  bride  with  an  eye  as  bright 
As  the  early  star  of  an  autumn  night, 
Standeth  ready  her  vows  to  plight  — 
Ding-a-ding  !  dong  ! 

Slowly  tolls  the  brazen  bell  — 

Ding  !  dong !  ding  ! 
Hark  !  its  heavy,  throbbing  swell 
Boometh  through  the  hollow  dell, 

Ding  !  ding !  dong  ! 
Now  it  shakes  the  rock  and  ground, 
Now  it  dreamily  floats  around, 
Dying  'mid  the  wood  profound  — 
Ding  !  dong  !  ding  ! 

Who  on  yon  black  hearse  is  borne  ? 

Ding  !  dong !  ding  ! 
Some  old  pilgrim,  tired  and  worn* 
Nay,  the  bride  of  last  year's  morn  ! 

Ding  !  ding  !  dong  ! 
Let  the  brazen  bell  deplore  her, 
Let  the  willow  tree  weep  o'er  her — 
He  she  loved  hath  gone  before  her  — 

Ding  !  dong  !  ding  ! 
1847. 


•     VISIONS. 

BEFORE  me,  on  the  dusky  air, 

I  catch  a  gleam  of  golden  hair  ; 

Far  through  the  green  copse  I  pursue  ; 

'T  was  but  a  sunbeam  glancing  through '. 

When  stretched  upon  the  grass  I  lie, 
I  meet  the  splendor  of  thine  eye  ; 
I  start  —  I  search  the  shadowy  glen  ; 
'T  was  but  a  violet  gazing  in. 

Thy  white  hand  beckons  from  the  hedge  , 
I  grasp  it  to  renew  my  pledge  ; 
A  shower  of  blooms  falls  over  me  ; 
'T  was  but  the  flowering  hawthorn  tree  ! 

From  the  dim  wood  I  hear  thee  call ; 
I  fly  —  't  was  but  the  waterfall !  • 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  219 

Thy  light  step  through  the  field  doth  pass ; 
I  turn  —  't  was  but  the  waving  grass  ! 

A  sigh  comes  stealing  from  the  grove  — 
The  well-known  sigh  of  slighted  love  ; 
I  fly  to  throw  me  at  thy  feet ; 
The  murmuring  pine  is  all  I  meet. 

Oh,  did  I  murder  thee,  that  thou 

Shouldst  haunt  me  with  thy  pale,  dead  brow  ? 

That  everywhere  thy  form  should  be 

A  shadow  between  heaven  and  me  ? 

Oh,  worse  than  keenest  sword  or  knife, 
The  worm  that  gnawed  away  thy  life  ! 
Love  fondly  given,  and  trust  betrayed, — 
In  this  is  all  thy  story  said. 
1848. 


THE   PERVADING  GOD. 

WHEN  but  a  child,  there  was  to  me 
A  greatness  and  a  mystery 

O'er  all  I  saw  ; 

There  hung  about  me  everywhere, 
In  earth,  and  sky,  and  cloud,  and  air, 

A  brooding,  penetrating  awe  ! 

The  palest  flower,  that  o'er  the  brook 
Hung  trembling,  had  within  its  look 

A  meaning  deep  ; 
A  spirit  seemed  to  interfuse 
The  frailest  forms,  the  dullest  hues  ; 

Each  had  an  awful  life  to  keep  ! 

Such  mysteries  made  me  weep  and  pray ! 
I  stole  from  outward  life  away 

To  that  within  ; 

I  asked  my  soul,  with  all  its  powers, 
To  league  itself  with  silent  hours, 

Some  answer  from  the  deep  to  win. 

Too  unintelligible,  then, 
The  voice  that  spake.     But  later,  when 
My  heart  had  grown, 


220  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

When  waked  by  grief,  and  love,  and  faith, 
It  bowed  to  what  the  Spirit  saith, 

I  heard,  and  understood  the  tone. 

Oh,  mighty  now  that  awful  Power, 
When  in  some  lonely,  listening  hour, 

It  speaks  to  me  ! 

Ask  me  not  why  my  heart  swells  high, 
Why  gushing  tears  o'erflow  my  eye  — 

Is  it  not  awful  then  TO  BE  ? 

To  be,  where  all  around  us  is  ! 
Perpetual  thought,  perpetual  bliss, 

In  ebb  and  flow  ! 

Life  never  pausing,  and  time  —  not! 
In  space  no  fixed,  no  central  spot, 

From  whence  we  came,  or  whither  go ! 

Yet  nature  the  deep  influx  loves  ! 
Through  the  great  swelling  stars  it  moves ; 

It  lifts  the  sea  ! 

Mountains,  pervaded,  breathe  and  speak  ; 
The  streams,  o'erfull,  in  music  break, 

And  set  the  mighty  Presence  free ! 

O  heart  of  mine  !     Thou,  too,  shouldst  be 
An  ever  full,  unsounded  sea 

Of  joy  and  love ! 

Come,  Spirit !  let  me  feel  thee*near ; 
Soul,  enter  !     Flow  upon  me  here 

From  all  beneath,  around,  above ! 
1848. 


ST.  VALENTINE'S  EVE. 

EIGHT  years  ago,  this  night,  my  love, 

I  met  thee  at  the  village  ball ; 
Oh,  fair  were  many  maidens  there, 

But  thou  the  fairest  of  them  all ! 
Like  a  soft  breeze  along  the  sea, 

Thy  form  went  waving  through  the  dance. 
While  I  stood  by  as  though  some  power 

Were  holding  me  in  trance. 


fOETICAL   SELECTIONS.  221 

Ere  long  a  shade,  yet  scarce  a  shade, 

A  twilight  softness  filled  thine  eye  ; 
Thou  from  the  hall  didst  pass,  and  stand 

Gazing  upon  the  moonlit  sky. 
Drawn  by  some  chain  I  could  not  see, 

I  followed.     We  were  there,  alone, 
In  the  arched  alcove.     Near  me  bowed 

A  red  rose,  newly  blown. 

"  Thou  hast  had  brilliant  gifts  to-day," 

I  said,  and  plucked  the  glowing  rose ; 
"  Mine  is  the  latest  and  the  least, 

And  must  not  be  compared  with  those. 
Take  it  as  Nature's  simple  key, 

Whereby  to  unlock  my  hidden  thought; 
A  pledge  of  something  nobler  far 

Than  all  the  rest  have  brought." 

I  said  no  more ;  I  could  not  say 

How  infinitely  deep  my  love ! 
Thy  hand  drew  near  to  take  my  flower  — 

That  little  hand  without  its  glove ! 
I  gave  the  flower,  I  took  the  hand  ; 

Ah !  the  moon  saw  thy  maiden  blush ! 
While  all  around,  in  earth  and  air, 

There  was  a  holy  hush  !  — 

A  hush,  as  if  with  reverent  joy 

All  Nature  felt  the  thrill  of  love  ; 
And  even  the  rude  and  careless  wind 

Seemed  lingering,  half  afraid  to  move. 
Then  by  thine  eye,  and  by  thy  hand 

That  yielded  tremblingly  to  mine, 
I  knew  thou  hadst  given  me  my  heart, 

A  priceless  Valentine ! 

Eight  years  have  passed ;  and  now,  agai '. 

St.  Valentine's  sweet  eve  hath  come  ; 
Only  one  little  year  ago 

I  brought  thee,  dearest,  to  my  home. 
This  cottage,  with  its  ivied  porch, 

Is  humbler  than  thy  father's  halls ; 
But  love  hath  turreted  its  roof, 

And  gold-inlaid  its  walls ! 
19* 


222  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

And  thou,  as  regal  as  a  queen, 

Yet  simple  as  a  shepherd  lass, 
Hast  made  the  hours,  on  azure  wings, 

Like  birds  of  beauty  fleetly  pass. 
It  seems  a  month,  a  week,  a  day, 

Scarcely  an  hour  since  thou  wert  mine ; 
Since  first  I  called  thee  wife  ;  and  now 

A  holier  name  is  thine ! 

This  morn,  to  crown  thy  deeds  of  love, 

Thou  brought'st  a  Valentine  to  me  ; 
A  son  to  bear  a  father's  name, 

But  in  his  soul  to  be  like  thee. 
Dear  wife !     God  bless  thee  for  the  joy 

That  filled  thy  soft  eyes  brimming  full ! 
God  bless  thee  for  the  blissful  hopes 

That  overran  my  soul ! 

But  they  are  gone.     One  day  hath  struck 

Its  fell  stroke  at  the  root  of  all ; 
How  swiftly  o'er  the  sunny  fields 

Black,  stormy  night  will  sometimes  fell ! 
Thy  gift  —  sweet  withered  bud !  — lies  cold 

Upon  thy  bosom's  pulseless  snow ; 
Ye  fell  asleep,  poor  weary  things, 

Full  two  long  hours  ago  ! 

Sleep  on,  my  birds,  and  take  your  rest ; 

Your  faithful  watcher  will  not  quit 
His  lonely  vigils  ;  nor  for  thee, 

Dear  wife,  his  Valentine  forget. 
Here  is  the  rose,  my  favorite  gift ; 

Oh  !  that  I  gave  eight  years  ago 
Was  red,  and  glowing  like  our  love  : 

Shall  this  night's  gift  be  so? 

Oh  no !  it  needs  a  white,  white  flower, 

For  love  that  death  hath  purified ! 
Here  let  it  lie,  beside  the  bud 

Thy  bosom  bore,  my  angel  bride  ! 
Wear  them  till  morning  comes.     Ah,  long 

Ere  morn  shall  break  again  for  me ! 
Thou  wert  the  star  that  brought  the  day, 

And  day  departs  with  thee ! 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  223 

Oh,  come  again,  some  early  hour, 

And  wake  me  from  this  dismal  dream ! 
Through  the  gray  leaden  clouds  of  sleep 

Let  thy  sweet  voice  in  music  stream ! 
Be  thine  the  song  that  first  shall  wake 

My  spirit  to  the  eternal  day  ! 
Be  thou  the  lark  to  herald  in 

Its  earliest  morning  ray ! 
1848. 


EDA. 

YE  are  my  sisters,  flowers :     I  lived  with  you 

In  the  green  valleys,  where  we  loved  the  sun, 
And  slept  beneath  the  falling  of  the  dew 

That  ever  came  to  us  when  day  was  done. 
I  bore  intensest  music  in  my  breast, 

That  none  could  hear  ;  yet  stifled  were  not  long 
Those  burning  lays.     My  soul  had  never  rest 

Till  in  the  nightingale  I  poured  my  song,  — 
The  nightingale,  who  sat  the  livelong  night 

Rising  and  falling  on  the  dewy  bough, 
Waking  young  lovers  to  come  forth  and  plight 

Beneath  the  moon,  love's  passionate  first  vow. 

I  have  passed  through  all  forms  of  sensate  life  ; 

My  being  filled  the  wave,  the  leaf,  the  tree ! 
Upward  I  ever  rose  ;  no  fear,  nor  strife, 

No  sin  I  knew  —  only  the  Deity  ! 
I  skimmed  along  the  ocean — dipped  my  wing 

In  the  soft  reflex  of  the  golden  cloud  — 
Rose  on  the  vapory  hues  of  love-warm  spring  — 

Burst  a  young  insect  from  the  chrysaline  shroud — 
Sported  beneath  the  green  waves  of  the  sea  — 

Left  my  white  shell  upon  the  shining  beach  — 
Slept  with  the  brown  doe  on  his  folded  knee  — 

Flooded  a  young  child's  breast  —  and  gushed  in  human 
speech ! 

Among  her  mates  young  Eda  stood  abashed  — 
Dull  was  her  eye, — her  step  constrained  and  slow  ; 

No  smile  was  on  her  lip,  —  no  feeling  flashed 
From  her  soft  cheek,  paler  than  moonlit  snow. 


224  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

The  master  was  among  them  questioning. 

All  laughed  at  Eda,  for  her  thoughts  were  weak ; 
"  You  have  no  soul!  you  are  a  stupid  thing !" 

The  master  cried,  and  struck  her  tender  cheek. 

My  life  flowed  into  her.     Her  bosom  shook, 

Her  eye  grew  dark  as  midnight's  and  as  bright ; 
Her  cheek  blushed  warm  with  quickening  joy,  —  her  look 

Grew  rapt  and  radiant  with  the  inner  light ! 
"  Oh  yes !  I  have  a  soul !"  she  bravely  said  ; 

"  I  feel  it  swell  my  heart,  and  crowd  my  brain ; 
A  flood  of  beauty  seems  to  fill  my  head, 

And  thoughts  fall  over  me  like  sudden  rain !" 

That  soul  was  me.     And  I  am  Eda  now, 

And  I  have  sisters  all  throughout  the  earth. 
Ye,  little  flowers,  are  such,  that  lowly  bow 

Before  the  wind,  unnoted  in  your  birth. 
And  you,  young  leaves,  that  quiver  on  the  tree, 

And  you,  sweet-singing,  ever-wakeful  birds, 
And  even  thou,  gold-legged,  buzzing  bee, 

And  all  ye  bounding  flocks  and  musing  herds. 

I  left  you  each,  my  sisters,  as  I  rose 

Upward  in  knowledge,  feeling,  life,  and  power. 
So  ye  shall  rise.     Our  life  has  no  repose ; 

Ye,  too,  shall  each  one  have  your  human  hour, 
And  pass  beyond  it !     Whither,  who  can  tell  ? 

Ultimately  unto  God  !     Thence  came  we  here. 
Up  the  great  orbit,  down  whose  curve  we  fell, 

We  shall  ascend  again  into  his  sphere  ! 
Be  hopeful,  little  ones !     The  way  seems  long,  — 

'T  is  ever  long,  O,  God  !  from  us  to  thee ! 
Yet  what  shall  bow  the  infinitely  strong, 

Made,  as  we  are,  to  be  —  and  be  —  and  BE  ! 
1848. 


A  MORNING  LANDSCAPE. 

AMID  the  rosy  fog  stole  in  and  out 
The  little  boat.     The  rower  dipped  his  oar, 

Gleaming  with  liquid  gold ;  and  all  about 

The  red-sailed  ships  went  swimming  from  the  shore. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  225 

Against  the  canvass,  moving  to  and  fro, 
The  dark  forms  of  the  fishermen  were  seen  ; 

Around  the  prow  long  wreaths  of  golden  glow 
Rippled  and  faded  'mid  the  wavy  green. 

The  sea-gulls  wheeled  around  the  rocky  cape, 

And  skimmed  their  long  wings  lightly  o'er  the  flood ; 

The  fog  rose  up  in  many  a  spectral  shape, 
And  crept  away  in  silence  o'er  the  wood. 

The  sea  from  silvery  white  to  deepest  blue 
Changed  'neath  the  changing  colors  of  the  sky ; 

The  distant  lighthouse  broke  upon  the  view, 
And  the  long  landpoint  spread  before  the  eye. 

Clear  as  a  mirror  lay  the  rock-bound  cove  ; 

Far  off  one  blasted  pine  against  the  sky 
Lifted  its  scraggy  form  ;  the  crow  above 

Flapped  his  black  wings,  and  wound  his  long  shrill  cry. 

I  paced  the  beach  like  some  sleep-waking  child, 

Wrapt  in  a  dream  of  beauty  and  of  awe ; 
Were  they  ideal  visions  that  beguiled  ? 

Was  it  my  eye,  or  but  my  soul,  that  saw  ? 
1848. 


NORA. 

A   BALLAD. 

THE  clouds  along  the  eastern  sky 

Scarce  caught  their  earliest  tinge  of  red, 

Ere  through  the  field  of  waving  rye 
Young  Nora  to  the  Fountain  sped ; 

A  little  Fountain  'mid  the  wood, 
Blue  as  the  morning  sky  of  May. 

One  giant  Oak  beside  it  stood ; 
Another,  moss-grown,  near  it  lay. 

Early  fair  Nora  came,  and  oft, 

To  bathe  her  young  form  in  its  wave ; 

Ah,  white  as  eider's  down,  and  soft, 
The  reflex  that  the  Fountain  gave ! 

Her  long  rich  locks  of  shining  gold 
O'er  her  smooth  shoulders  rippling  fell, 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

And  swept  in  many  a  wavy  fold 
Around  her  bosom's  virgin  swell. 

Her  lips  were  like  the  budding  rose, 
And  like  the  budding  rose  her  breath ; 

A  sweeter  flower  did  ne'er  unclose 
In  valley,  woodland,  or  on  heath. 

The  pathway  to  that  lonely  spring 

No  foot  but  hers  had  ever  trod  ; 
Enough  her  own  pure  heart  to  bring, 

And  meet  with  Nature  there,  and  God. 

So  fourteen  joyous  summers  passed  ; 

And  Nora,  into  girlhood  grown, 
Through  the  green  field  of  rye  at  last 

Came  to  the  Fountain,  not  alone. 

With  glowing  cheek,  and  bosom  warm, 

Another  to  its  side  she  led  ; 
To  gaze  upon  another's  form 

She  o'er  its  crystal  bowed  her  head. 

Alas !  with  sudden  start  and  shriek, 
With  trembling  lips  and  clasped  hands, 

And  deadly  paleness  o'er  her  cheek, 
Speechless  poor  loving  Nora  stands ! 

But  Udolph  laughed  out  scornfully, 

Though  o'er  the  Fountain  passed  a  shade, 

And  from  the  Oak  a  mournful  sigh 

Swept  shivering  through  the  woody  glade. 

For  in  that  pure  and  placid  Spring 
Not  Udolph's  image  o'er  her  leaned ! 

It  was  a  hideous,  leering  thing  — 
The  image  of  a  ghastly  Fiend ! 

He  laughed,  and  turning,  met  her  gaze; 
"  Why  fearest  thou,  my  love  ?"  said  he ; 
"  'Tis  but  a  few  refracted  rays  — 

Thou  look'st  the  same  therein  to  me." 

"  Come,  let  us  quit  this  lying  Spring ; 
It  would  deceive  thee,  Nora,  dear ! 
Am  I,  indeed,  a  loathsome  thing, 

That  thou  shouldst  curse  me  with  thy  fear?" 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  227 

Young  Nora,  listening  to  his  plea, 

And  gazing  on  his  beauteous  face, 
Forgot  the  awful  fantasy  — 

Forgot  her  soul  in  his  embrace  ! 

Poor  Nora  !     Dark  the  Fountain  grew, 

That  ne'er  to  thee  was  dark  before  ; 
A  hoarse  wind  through  the  old  Oak  blew,  — 

Thou  earnest  to  thy  shrine  no  more ! 

So  years  went  by.     The  field  of  rye 

Full  forty  harvests  had  supplied  ; 
No  footpath  longer  met  the  eye, 

And  the  old  Oak  had  fallen  and  died. 

An  aged  woman,  bowed  and  weak, 

One  evening  to  the  Fountain  came  ; 
Withered  and  dark  her  hollow  cheek, 

Red-branded  with  a  woman's  shame : 

Over  the  clear,  deep  wave  she  leaned  — 

Leaned  feebly,  yet  with  resolute  will ; 
What  saw  she  there  ?     Alas,  no  Fiend ; 

Something  more  dread  and  fearful  still ! 

"  Is  thy  name  Nora?"  cried  she.    "  Shape ! 

Answer  me  !  art  thou  she  1    O  where 
The  golden  locks  that  used  to  escape 
Over  her  shoulders,  round  and  fair? 

"  Oh,  where  the  snowy,  dimpled  arm, 
The  rosy  lip,  the  spotless  breast, 
The  young  affections,  deep  and  calm, 
The  heart's  repose,  the  spirit's  rest? 

"  Never  again  shall  Nora  shine 

Serene  and  star-like  from  thy  wave  ; 
But  aged  Sin  her  shade  incline 
Athwart  thy  bosom  to  the  grave. 

"  Yet  let  me  bathe  this  brow  once  more ; 

O  God !  what  sorrow,  yet  what  peace ! 
Sure  if  life's  conflict  e'er  be  o'er 
Here  by  thy  stillness  it  shall  cease ! ' 

Oh,  magic  Spring !  one  touch  of  thine, 
One  soft  kiss  of  thy  holy  wave, 


1848. 


POETICAL  SELECTIONS. 

One  unction,  blessed  and  benign, 
New  freshness  to  her  being  gave ! 

Not  young  again,  not  pure,  nor  gay, 
But  peaceful,  hopeful,  and  resigned, 

Nora,  the  aged,  day  by  day, 

On  thy  soft  breast  her  form  reclined. 

And  day  by  day  her  hollow  eye 

Grew  brighter  with  an  inward  light ; 

Strength  nerved  her  frame,  and  Shame's  red  dye 
Changed  into  Faith's  celestial  white. 

So  time  passed  on  —  till  from  a  mount 
One  summer's  night  a  watchman's  eye 

Discerned  a  white  mist  from  the  fount 
Float  up,  and  cross  the  moonlit  sky. 

It  spread  its  silvery  wings,  and  caught 
The  glories  of  the  full-orbed  moon  ; 

The  Pleiades  a  garland  wrought 
Around  its  head.     It  vanished  soon. 

Next  morn  the  watchman  sought  the  Spring 

In  vain  ;  a  greener  circle  lay 
Where  once  its  waters  slept ;  a  ring 

Of  willows  sparkled  with  its  spray. 

But  ne'er  a  fountain  gushed  again 
Beside  that  fallen  oak.     The  woods 

Still  whisper  Nora's  name.  The  lane 
Writes  it  in  leaves  and  buds. 

The  birds  repeat  it  in  their  songs  ; 

In  the  soft  brooklet's  voice  it  flows  ; 
Echo  the  haunting  sound  prolongs  ; 

But  Nora  with  the  Fountain  rose. 


DEVOTION. 

To  Thee,  O  God,  adoringly, 
We  lift  our  reverent  eyes  — 

For  thou  hast  made  the  glorious  earth, 
And  filled  the  awful  skies. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

To  Thee  submissively  we  look  ; 

For  all  we  have  is  thine  ; 
Most  gratefully  we  would  receive, 

Most  cheerfully  resign. 

And  ever  most  entreatingly, 
O  God,  we  turn  to  thee, 

In  humble  trust  for  all  we  are, 

And  all  we  hope  to  be. 
1848. 


CONTEMPLATION. 

HER  thoughts  are  of  the  Beautiful.     Her  soul 
Dwells  with  the  shapes  and  colors  of  the  Fair. 
Flowers  that  spring  up  in  rocky  clefts  and  droop 
Mirrored  above  the  waters,  stars  hung  high 
In  the  blue  dome  of  night,  like  urns  of  gold 
O'erflowing  all  the  earth,  foam-crested  waves 
That  dance  to  inborn  melodies,  light,  air, 
Sunshine  and  rainbows,  hills  and  dells  of  green, 
Far  off  sweet  glens  among  the  mountain  streams, 
And  woods  o'ercrowded  with  abundant  growth 
Of  moss,  and  vines,  and  lichen  —  dreams  like  these 
Fill  up  the  happy  soul  within  whose  depths 
Hard  care  has  never  entered,  and  from  these, 
How  easy,  step  by  step,  to  rise  from  earth 
Into  the  region  of  the  Power  whose  will 
Created  all  this  Beauty,  and  bestowed 
On  us  the  higher  grace  of  Thought  and  Taste 
To  understand  and  feel  it.     Surely  there 
Her  soul  hath  entered  now,  and  is  entranced. 
1848. 


THE  ADVENTURE. 

'T  WAS  a  day  in  the  middle  of  spring,  Lucy, 

Mellow  and  hazy  and  warm  ; 
The  sky  wore  the  thin  silver  grayness 

That  hangs  on  the  front  of  the  storm. 
20 


230  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 

I  sought  with  my  rod  and  my  angle 

The  cove  where  the  willow-trees  grew  ; 

They  hung  o'er  the  stillest  of  waters, 
And  deepened  the  densest  of  blue. 

And  when  a  fresh  sweep  of  the  wind,  Lucy, 

The  long,  tasselled  boughs  blew  aside, 
I  could  see  the  old  mill  in  its  ruins, 

Half  standing,  half  sunk  in  the  tide. 
The  moss  on  its  roof  was  then  greenest, 

Well  freshened  by  sunshine  and  shower, 
And  soft  amber  vapor  rose  upward 

And  crept  round  its  ivy-wreathed  tower. 

As  1  sat  on  the  roots  of  the  willows 

Where  mosscups  and  violets  grew, 
The  scent  of  the  gold-dusted  bloom,  Lucy, 

Seemed  thrilling  my  whole  being  through. 
The  red-spotted  trout  that  came  gliding 

And  darting  alert  through  the  cove, 
Scarce  woke  my  rapt  soul  from  the  dream,  Lucy, 

That  Nature  and  Feeling  had  wove. 

But  a  glance  where  beside  the  old  ruin 

The  mill-stone  lay  hid  in  the  grass, 
With  a  tuft  growing  up  through  the  centre, 

And  flowers  nodding  out  from  the  mass  — 
Ope  glance  at  a  bright  golden  head,  Lucy, 

That  hung  like  a  flower  'mid  the  green, 
Dispelled  all  the  dreams  that  had  bound  me, 

And  brought  me  once  more  to  the  scene. 

I  flew  as  though  wings  had  burst  from  me  ; 

I  startled  the  dove  from  her  rest 
She  fled  to  the  shade  of  the  ruin, 

The  hawk  followed  up  to  the  nest. 
A  flume  whence  the  wheel  had  been  taken, 

Stood  open  behind  the  old  mill ; 
'T  was  now  more  than  half  filled  with  water, 

Black,  slimy,  and  dismally  chill. 

I  shuddered  with  horror  and  anguish  : 
Alas  !  she  had  rushed  to  its  brink  ; 

She  stood  on  the  old  rotten  cross-beam  — 
One  step,  it  would  totter  and  sink  ; 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  231 

I  shrieked,  "  Oh  forbear  !  oh  forbear,  Lucy!" 

My  cries  but  alarmed  her  the  more  ; 
She  sprang  to  the  point  that  was  frailest  — 

One  crash,  and  the  horror  was  o'er ! 

The  horror,  but  not  the  endeavor  ; 

I  rushed  with  one  bound  to  her  side  ; 
I  saw  her  pale  face  and  gold  tresses,  — 

A  lily  afloat  on  the  tide. 
She  reached  her  white  arms  toward  my  neck,  Lucy, 

I  knelt,  and  with  both  arms  outspread 
I  drew  the  wet  dove  to  my  bosom, 

Pale,  fainting,  and  seemingly  dead. 

I  wrapped  her  about  with  my  arms,  Lucy, 

I  warmed  her  cold  lips  with  my  own  ; 
I  felt  that  at  least  for  this  moment 

Her  being  was  mine  —  mine  alone. 
Nor  did  she  that  claim  disallow,  Lucy, 

When  lifting  her  heavenly  eyes, 
She  gazed  on  my  face  with  a  gladness 

That  fully  o'erpowered  her  surprise. 

I  drew  her  then  closer  than  ever — 

Ah,  Lucy,  what  meaneth  that  tear? 
Dost  than,  then,  the  dear  scene  remember? 

Then  come  and  react  it  all  here. 
Say  now,  as  thou  then  saidst,  "  I  love  thee !" 

Though  twenty  long  years  have  gone  by 
Since  first  I  dared  gather  that  meaning 

From  all  the  kind  looks  of  thine  eye. 

Ah  !  never  less  sweet  would  those  words  be, 

Though  we  are  as  "  old  as  the  hills," 
For  love  that  is  true  in  its  budding 

The  winter  of  time  never  kills. 
Nay,  rather  old  age  does  but  mellow 

And  sweeten  the  fruit  of  true  love ; 
For  however  storms  beat  around  it, 

The  sun  always  shines  From  above ! 
1848. 


232  POETICAL   SELECTIONS. 


THE   SHADOW-CHILD. 

WHENCE  came  this  little  phantom 

That  flits  about  my  room  — 
That 's  here  from  early  morning 

Until  the  twilight  gloom  ? 
Forever  dancing,  dancing, 

She  haunts  the  wall  and  floor, 
And  frolics  in  the  sunshine    , 

Around  the  open  door. 

The  ceiling  by  the  table 

She  makes  her  choice  retreat, 
For  there  a  little  human-girl 

Is  wont  to  have  her  seat. 
They  take  a  dance  together  — 

A  crazy  little  jig  ; 
And  sure  two  baby  witches 

Ne'er  run  so  wild  a  rig  ! 

They  pat  their  hands  together 

With  frantic  jumps  and  springs, 
Until  you  almost  fancy 

You  catch  the  gleam  of  wings. 
Shrill  shrieks  the  human-baby 

In  the  madness  of  delight, 
And  back  return  loud  echoes 

From  the  little  shadow  sprite. 

At  morning  by  my  bedside, 

When  first  the  birdies  sing, 
Up  starts  the  little  phantom 

With  a  merry  laugh  and  spring. 
She  woos  me  from  my  pillow 

With  her  little  coaxing  arms  • 
I  go  where'er  she  beckons  — 

A  victim  to  her  charms. 

At  night  I  still  am  haunted 
By  glimpses  of  her  face ; 

Her  features  on  my  pillow 
By  moonlight  I  can  trace. 


POETICAL   SELECTIONS.  233 

Whence  came  this  shadow-baby 
That  haunts  my  heart  and  home  ? 

What  kindly  hand  hath  sent  her, 
And  wherefore  hath  she  come  ? 

Long  be  her  dancing  image 

Our  guest  by  night  and  day, 
For  lonely  were  our  dwelling 

If  she  were  now  away. 
Far  happier  hath  our  home  been, 

More  blest  than  e'er  before, 
Since  first  that  little  shadow 

Came  gliding  through  our  door. 
1848. 


20* 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

FROM   FREILIGRATH. 

ON  her  soft  and  snow-white  pillow 
Lies  the  maiden,  sleep-enchanted  ; 

Deeply  sunk,  her  long  brown  lashes 
O'er  her  crimson  cheek  are  slanted. 

On  the  toilet  table  glistening, 
Stands  a  flower-vase,  richly  graven  ; 

In  this  vase  are  glittering  blossoms. 
Scented  with  the  dews  of  even. 

Brooding,  has  the  sultry  dampness 
All  the  chamber-lawn  pervaded  ; 

Fearful  of  the  summer  coolness, 
Windows  all  are  closed  and  shaded. 

Deep  and  dead  the  silence  reigneth  ; 

Sudden,  hark  !  a  low,  soft  whisper  ! 
In  the  flowers,  among  the  branches, 

Breathes  it  like  a  fairy's  vesper. 

From  the  flower-vase,  rising  slowly, 
Many  a  vapory  shape  appeareth  ; 

Mist-wreaths  form  their  subtle  raiment, 
Each  a  crown  and  shield  upreareth. 

From  the  Rose's  purple  bosom 

Rises  now  a  slender  maiden, 
And  her  soft  locks,  floating  loosely, 

Are  with  pearls,  like  dew-drops,  laden  ! 

From  the  helmet  of  the  Monk's  Hood, 
'Mid  its  dark  green  foliage  beaming, 


TRANSLATIONS.  235 

Stalks  a  knight  of  valiant  courage, 
Sword  and  helmet  brightly  gleaming. 

O'er  his  casque  a  heron's  feather 

Nods  its  silvery  hues  beclouded. 
From  the  Lily  floats  a  maiden, 

In  a  veil  of  goss'mer  shrouded. 

From  the  Turban-flower  upstarting, 
Strides  a  grim  Moor,  proud,  puissant ; 

Brightly  on  his  dark  green  turban 
Glows  the  half-moon's  golden  crescent. 

Glittering  from  the  Crown  Imperial, 

Boldly  forth  an  emperor  stalketh ; 
Following  from  the  deep  blue  Iris, 

Lo,  his  sword-armed  hunter  walketh. 

From  the  leaves  of  the  Narcissus 

Steals  a  youth,  with  eyes  of  sadness, 
Mounts  the  bed,  one  kiss  imprinting 

On  the  maiden's  lips  in  madness. 

Now  the  silent  bed  encircling, 

Where  the  shades  of  night  are  deeper, 

Turn  they,  swing  they,  softly  singing, 
This  sad  chorus  to  the  sleeper  : 

"  Maiden  !  maiden  !  thou  hast  cruelly 

Torn  us  from  the  things  we  cherish, 
That  within  this  costly  chalice, 
We  may  wither,  fade,  and  perish  ! 

"  Oh  we  rested  there  so  happy, 

On  the  bright  earth's  mother-bosom  ! 
Where,  through  greenest  branches  pouring, 
Sunbeams  waked  us  into  blossom  ! 

"  There  the  vernal  winds  refreshed  us, 

To  and  fro  our  frail  stalks  bending  ;  — 
There  at  night  like  elves  we  sported, 
From  our  house  of  leaves  ascending. 

"  Clear  fell  round  us  rain  and  dew-drops  ; 

Now  we  float  in  turbid  water ; 
We  must  die  :  yet  ere  we  perish, 

Vengeance  seize  thee,  Beauty's  daughter!" 


236  TRANSLATIONS. 

Hushed  the  song  ;  again  the  spirits 
Bend  around  the  fair  one  sleeping ; 

Through  the  old  dim,  hollow  silence, 
Hark  !  again  the  murmur  creeping. 

Such  a  rustling  !  such  a  whispering  ! 

How  the  maiden's  cheeks  are  glowing  ! 
How  the  spirits  breathe  upon  them  ! 

How  the  vapor  now  is  flowing  ! 

Now  the  sunshine  greets  the  chamber ; 

See,  the  ghosts  withdraw  their  forces  ; 
Cold  upon  her  soft  white  pillow 

Sleeps  the  loveliest  of  corses  ! 

She,  herself  a  withered  floweret, 
With  her  crimson  blush  still  cherished, 

Sleeps  beside  her  withered  sisters ;  — 
By  the  breath  of  flowers  she  perished  ! 


THE  YOUTH  AND  THE  MILL-STREAM. 

FROM    GOETHE. 
YOUTH. 

WHERE  glidest  thou,  clear  little  stream, 

So  brightly  ? 
Thou  hastenest  with  a  joyous  gleam 

Down  lightly  ; 

What  seekest  thou  within  the  vale  ! 
Hear  me  this  once,  and  tell  thy  tale. 

STREAM. 
I  was  a  little  running  brook, 

So  sparkling ! 
My  sunny  waves  they  captive  took ; 

Now  darkling, 

I  through  the  dyke,  beneath  the  mill, 
Flow  swift  and  full,  and  never  still. 

YOUTH. 

Thou  hastenest  with  a  gentle  will 
To  duty, 


TRANSLATIONS.  237 

And  know'st  not  how  my  young  veins  thrill 

To  beauty ! 

Oh,  does  the  pretty  mill-maid  look 
Oft  gently  on  thee,  little  brook? 

STREAM. 

She  lifts  at  morning's  rosy  break 

The  shutter ; 
And  comes  to  bathe  breast,  lip  and  cheek 

In  water ; 

From  her  soft  bosom,  full  and  white, 
I  rise  in  vapor  warm  and  bright. 


If  she  can  make  the  watery  flood 

Her  lover, 
Oh,  how  its  peace  shall  flesh  and  blood 

Recover  ? 

If  once  man's  path  by  her  be  crost, 
His  rest  is  gone,  his  peace  is  lost. 

STREAM. 

Then  rush  I  from  the  wheel  below 

In  thunder ; 
And  all  the  dashing  ladles  go 

Down  under ! 

The  water  has  a  marvellous  might 
While  this  fair  maiden  toils  in  sight. 

YOUTH. 

Thou  poor  one !  shareth  not  thy  breast 

My  passion  ? 
She  smiles  on  thee,  and  says  in  jest, 

Now  dash  on ! 

Yet  with  a  sweet  love-glance  delays 
Thy  waters  ever  'neath  her  gaze. 

STREAM. 

From  hence  I  find,  where'er  I  flow, 

All  shadow ! 
I  murmur,  murmur  slowly  through 

The  meadow ; 

And  could  my  own  will  be  my  guide, 
How  soon  would  I  returning  glide. 


238  TRANSLATIONS. 


I  go,  thou  sharer  of  my  love 

And  sadness ! 
I  yet,  perchance,  may  hear  thee  more 

In  gladness. 

Go,  tell  her  now,  and  every  day, 
What  still  I  wish,  and  hope,  and  pray  ! 


TO  THE   ESTRANGED. 

FROM   GOETHE. 

AND  have  I  lost  thee.  then,  forever? 

Art  thou,  oh  dear  one,  from  me  flown? 
In  my  accustomed  ear  rings  ever 
*    Thine  every  word,  and  every  tone. 

And  as  the  traveller's  gaze  at  morning 
In  vain  far  through  the  sky  upsprings, 

When,  hidden  in  the  deep  blue  dawning, 
High  over  him  the  sky-lark  sings ; 

So,  anxiously,  my  own  glance,  flying, 

Scans  field,  and  copse,  and  wood  and  tree ; 

To  thee,  too,  all  my  songs  are  crying, 
Oh,  come,  beloved,  back  to  me  ! 


SPRING'S  ORACLE,  OR  THE  CUCKOO. 

FROM   GOETHE. 

THOU  prophetic  minstrel,  thou  ! 
Singer  'mid  the  blossoming  bough  ! 
Jp  this  fairest  of  the  year, 
Thou  the  prayers  of  lovers  hear ! 
If  sweet  hope  our  hearts  may  swell, 
Hear  us,  dearest  bird,  and  tell ; 
With  thy  cuckoo,  cuckoo,  coo, 
Evermore  cuckoo,  cuckoo. 
Listen  thou  !     A  loving  pair 
Fain  their  bridal  chain  would  wear ; 
And  they  now  are  in  their  youth, 
Full  of  virtue,  full  of  truth. 


TRANSLATIONS.  239 

Has  not  yet  arrived  the  day  ? 

Say,  how  long  must  we  delay  ? 

Hark,  cuckoo  !     Hark,  cuckoo  ! 

Hush,  hush,  dear  bird  !  add  nought  thereto ! 

Ere  that  crowning  day  appears, 

We  must  wait  two  patient  years ! 

But,  when  we  shall  share  one  home, 

Will  the  "pa-pa-papas"  come? 

Know  that  thou  wilt  please  us  well, 

If  thou  many  shall  foretell. 

One,  cuckoo !  two,  cuckoo ! 

More,  yet  more  !  Cuckoo,  cuckoo,  coo ! 

Ah  !  and  have  we  counted  right ! 

'Tis  not  half  a  dozen,  quite. 

If  we  thank  thee,  wilfthou  tell 

How  long  we  on  earth  shall  dwell  1 

We  our  wishes  will  not  hide  ; 

Gladly  would  we  long  abide. 

Coo,  cuckoo,  coo,  cuckoo, 

Coo,  coo,  coo,  coo,  coo,  coo,  coo,  coo,  coo. 

Life  is  one  great  holiday, 
If  we  grieve  it  not  away. 
If  together  it  be  passed, 
Say,  oh  say,  shall  true  love  last? 
Oh  !  if  that  can  e'er  be  o'er, 
Nought  will  then  be  lovely  more  ! 
Coo,  cuckoo,  coo,  cuckoo, 
Coo,  coo,  coo,  coo,  coo,  coo,  coo,  coo,  coo. 
(By  grace,  ad  infinitum.) 


VINETA. 

FROM    WILHELM    MULLER. 

FROM  the  ocean's  deep  and  dark  foundations, 
Faint  and  dull  the  bells  of  evening  ring, 

And  to  us  mysterious  revelations 

Of  the  grand  old  wonder-city*  bring. 

*  Mahabalipur,  or  the  city  of  Baly,  was  swallowed  up  by  the  sea.  Ages 
after,  it  is  said,  its  towers  and  battlements  were  seen  above  the  surface  ;  and 
being  plated  with  copper,  they  shone  with  dazzling  splendor  in  the  beams 


240  TRANSLATIONS. 

Where  the  green  sea  in  its  caverns  darkles, 
Still  the  sunken  battlements  remain, 

Gleaming  o'er  the  waves,  like  golden  sparkles 
On  the  reflex  of  a  mirror  seen. 

There  the  seaman,  who  the  enchanting  glitter 
Once  at  sunset  on  the  red  waves  met, 

'Mid  the  cliffs  retained  by  some  strange  fetter, 
Tracks  the  self-same  round  of  waters  yet ! 

From  my  heart's  own  deep  and  dark  foundations, 
Faint  and  dull,  like  bells,  low  voices  ring  ; 

Ah,  to  me  what  wondrous  revelations 
Of  its  early  perished  love  they  bring  ! 

Where  the  deep  sea  of  my  spirit  darkles, 
Ruins  of  that  beauteous  world  remain  ; 

Like  the  glow  of  heaven's  bright,  golden  sparkles 
In  the  mirror  of  my  dreams  oft  seen  ! 

Then  I  fain  would  plunge  the  great  deep  under  ; 

Sunk  'neath  the  reflex  gladly  would  I  be  ! 
To  that  olden  city,  world  of  wonder, 

Hark,  the  voice  of  angels  calling  me ! 


THE  MINSTREL'S  CURSE. 

FROM    UHLAND. 

THERE  stood  in  olden  ages  a  tower  so  high  and  grand, 
It  shone  far  o'er  the  valleys  to  the  blue  sea's  rocky  strand  ; 
Around  it  sprang  fresh  fountains,  by  glittering  rainbows  crowned, 
And  gardens,  rich  in  blossoms,  like  garlands  spanned  them  round. 

There  sat  a  haughty  monarch,  in  land  and  conquests  rich  ; 
Pale  sat  he  on  his  throne,  like  a  statue  in  a  niche  ; 
AH  that  he  thought  was  terror,  all  that  he  looked  was  rage, 
His  words  were  fearful  scourges,  and  blood  filled  every  page  ! 

Once  went  to  this  grand  castle  a  noble  minstrel  pair  ; 
One  shone  with  golden  ringlets,  and  one  with  silvery  hair ; 

of  the  morning  and  evening  sun.  There  is  a  magnificent  description  of  this 
submarine  city,  in  Southey's  "  Curse  of  Kehama"  —  both  as  it  appeared 
above  and  beneath  the  sea.  —  THANBLATOB. 


TRANSLATIONS.  241 

The  old  gray-headed  harper  a  gallant  steed  bestrode, 

And  on  the  flank,  well-mounted,  his  blooming  comrade  rode. 

The  elder  to  the  younger  said,  "  Be  ready  now,  my  son  ! 
Our  deepest  airs  remember,  —  'cord  to  the  fullest  tone  ! 
In  songs  of  love  and  sorrow  we  '11  blend  our  mightiest  art, 
For  it  must  be  our  aim  to-day  to  move  the  king's  stern  heart !" 

Already  stand  the  minstrels  in  the  pillared  hall  of  pride, 
Where  on  the  throne  are  seated  the  monarch  and  his  bride  ; 
The  king  fearfully  splendid,  like  the  bloody  northern  lights, 
The  queen  as  sweet  and  gentle  as  the  moon  on  summer  nights. 

Then  struck  the  aged  minstrel  his  harp  with  hand  so  skilled, 
That  rich  and  ever  richer  on  the  ear  its  music  swelled  ; 
And  now,  in  heavenly  sweetness,  the  young  man's  strains  begin, 
While  like  a  dull  ghost-chorus,  the  old  man's  song  flows  in. 

They  sing  of  spring  and  friendship,  of  the  blissful  golden  tune, 
Of  freedom  and  man's  dignity,  of  truth  and  faith  sublime  ; 
They  sing  of  all  the  sweetness  that  trembles  through  man's  breast, 
Of  alf  the  scorn  that  maddens  him,  and  breaks  his  spirit's  rest. 

The  band  of  circling  courtiers  forgot  each  sneering  word, 
The  king's  old  valiant  warriors  bowed  low  their  hearts  to  God  ; 
The  queen,  dissolved  in  sorrow,  and  by  thrilling  joy  opprest, 
Threw,  smiling,  toward  the  minstrels  the  rose  from  her  white  breast. 

"  You  have  bewitched  my  people,  will  you  now  seduce  my  bride?" 
Raved  the  king,  his  whole  frame  shaking  in  his  fury  and  his  pride  ; 
He  hurled  his  sword,  that  gleaming,  through  the  young  man's  bosom 

swept, 
Whence,  in  place  of  golden  music,  the  crimson  blood  outleapt. 

While  from  this  frightful  tumult  the  listening  crowd  retired, 
The  golden-haired  young  minstrel  in  his  master's  arms  expired. 
Then  he  wrapt  him  in  his  mantle,  and  sat  him  on  the  steed, 
And  from  the  stately  castle  set  forth  in  silent  speed. 

Yet  at  the  high  gate  halting,  his  harp  the  old  man  grasped  ; 
It  was  the  prize  of  all  harps  that  ever  minstrel  clasped  ; 
Against  a  marble  column  he  dashed  it  in  his  wrath, 
And  sent  his  curses  fearfully  through  hall  and  garden-path. 

"  Woe  be  to  thee,  proud  castle  !     No  sweet  sounds  e'er  again 
Shall  ring  along  thine  arches,  of  harp  or  minstrel  strain  ; 
21 


242  TRANSLATIONS. 

But  groans,  and  creeping  slave-steps  that  dread  the  tyrant's  frown, 
Until  to  mould  and  ruins  the  avenger  tread  thee  down  ! 

"  Woe  be  to  you,  ye  gardens,  in  the  sweet,  soft  light  of  May  ! 
Here,  look  on  this  grim  visage,  this  pale,  disfigured  clay  ! 
That  henceforth  ye  may  wither,  your  gushing  founts  run  dry, 
And  stones  and  broken  columns  o'er  all  your  beauty  lie  ! 

"  Woe  be  to  thee,  thou  murderer  !  cursed  of  the  minstrel  powers  ! 
In  vain  are  all  thy  conquests  and  bloody  wreaths  of  flowers  ; 
Thy  name  shall  be  forgotten  —  in  night  eternal  veiled, 
Or  like  a  rattling  death-gasp,  in  empty  air  exhaled  !" 

The  old  man  hath  pronounced  it,  —  to  heaven  the  curse  hath  flown; 
The  walls  lie  low  and  crumbling,  the  halls  are  overthrown  ; 
To  tell  its  vanished  splendor  but  one  column  now  remains, 
And  that,  already  shattered,  will  soon  o'erstrew  the  plains  ! 

In  place  of  fragrant  gardens  lie  waste  and  dreary  lands  ;  — 
No  tree  throws  there  its  shadow,  no  fount  o'erflows  the  sands  ; 
No  songs,  no  books  of  heroes  the  monarch's  deeds  rehearse  ; 
Down-trodden  and  forgotten,  —  that  is  the  Minstrel's  Curse  ! 


THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  PERSIAN  POET. 

FROM    MILLEVOYE. 

"  THY  voice,  Za'ida,  is  the  voice  of  the  breeze  ; 

All  my  soul  on  its  sweetness  is  wafted  along  : 
But  say,  what  bold  lyre  could  from  Paradise  seize 

The  notes  that  enliven  thy  beautiful  song  1 

"  0  !  sure,  ne'er  the  roses  that  Poesy  loves, 

Those  treasures  with  fragrance  and  beauty  replete, 

Embalm  with  such  perfumes  bright  Asia's  groves  : 
Not  even  the  kiss  of  thy  lips  were  so  sweet '" 

"  This  hymn,  noble  sultan,  the  great  Benamar 
Evoked  from  the  lyre  with  his  magical  hand  ; 

A  poet  who  showed  us  the  dawning  afar 
Of  a  day  without  end  in  a  holier  land. 

"  His  lost  songs  have  yet  no  recompense  found  ; 

Toward  the  drear  sands  of  Iran  he  wandered  astray, 
To  tune  his  wild  lyre  to  the  hurricane's  sound  ; 

One  star,  his  young  daughter,  to  brighten  his  way  !" 


TRANSLATIONS.  243 

"  Brave  Emir  !  go  mount  thee  my  gallant  black  steed  ; 

Her  feet  are  as  light  as  a  mountain  bird's  wing  ; 
Fly,  fly  to  the  deserts  !  outstrip  the  wind's  speed  ! 

And  give  Benamar  this  diamond  ring. 

"  Now  Night  and  thy  Darkness  !  witness  my  words ; 

Such  jewels  and  honors  the  poet  shall  see, 
That  the  stars  roaming  over  the  heavens  in  herds, 

Less  numerous  are  than  his  treasures  shall  be  ! 

"  Perchance,  he  may  lead  his  sweet  child  on  his  arm 

To  fill  our  saloons  with  harmonious  song  ! 
From  the  eyes  that  admire  her  this  isolate  Palm 

On  the  sands  of  the  desert  hath  flourished  too  long !" 

Lightly  urging  the  courser,  the  Emir  obeyed  ; 

He  shot  o'er  the  plains  like  an  arrow  in  flight ; 
On  his  way,  a  young  stranger,  a  beautiful  maid, 

Pale  and  charming,  appeared  toward  the  fall  of  the  night 

"  O  Traveller!     Thou  who,  unsheltered  and  far, 

Through  the  drear  sands  of  Iran  art  wand 'ring  alone, 

What  seekest  thou  here  ?"     "I  seek  Benamar, 
The  Pride  of  the  Sultan,  the  Bard  of  the  throne !" 

"  O  Traveller  !  great  Benamar  was  my  sire  ; 

No  longer  he  liveth  to  suffer  and  weep, 
'Neath  those  tall  cypress  trees  he  lies  clasping  his  lyre, 

And  near  him,  I  too  in  the  desert  shall  sleep." 

"  Flower  of  Beauty  !  thy  charms  will  revive  in  the  light ; 

Come,  let  us  this  eve  from  the  desert  depart ; 
The  star  of  prosperity,  changelessly  bright, 

Henceforth  shall  illumine  thy  desolate  heart." 

"  Thou  seest  the  grave  where  sad  vigils  I  keep  ; 

So  closed  is  my  heart  from  the  joy  of  the  sky  ; 
My  wealth  was  my  father  ;  he  lieth  asleep  ; 

Poor  Benamar  lived,  poor  his  daughter  will  die  !" 

And  sinking,  she  clasped  to  her  sorrowing  breast 
The  soil  of  that  grave  she  was  yearning  to  share  ; 

While  the  boughs  of  the  cypress,  by  zephyrs  caressed, 
Commingled  their  shade  with  the  black  of  her  hair. 

With  a  faltering  voice,  once  again  to  her  lute 

The  notes  of  a  beautiful  anthem  were  given  ; 
It  died  from  her  lips,  and  the  chords  became  mute ; 

She  began  it  on  earth  to  complete  it  in  heaven ! 


244  TRANSLATIONS. 

THE   TOMB   AND  THE   ROSE. 

FROM    VICTOR    HUGO. 

THE  Tomb  said  to  the  Rose  : 

"  With  the  tears  the  morning  throws 

O'er  thee,  what  doest  thou?" 
The  Rose  said  to  the  Tomb : 
"  With  him  who  to  thy  gloom 

Goes  down,  what  doest  thou?" 

The  Rose  said :  "  Mournful  Tomb, 
With  these  tear-drops  I  perfume, 

Amber  sweet,  the  dusky  brake." 
The  Tomb  said  :     "  Rose,  each  soul 
That  comes  unto  my  goal, 

I  a  heavenly  angel  make." 


THE   PRISONER  OF  WAR. 

FROM  BERANGER. 

MARIE,  I  pray  thee  work  no  more ! 

The  lover's  star  is  in  the  skies,  — 
My  mother,  on  a  foreign  shore 
A  village  youth  now  captive  lies. 
Taken  afar  upon  the  sea, 
He  waiteth  still  his  ransom  day. 

Spin,  spin,  poor  Marie, 
To  help  the  prisoner,  far  away  ; 

Spin,  spin,  poor  Marie, 
Spin  for  the  prisoner,  far  away. 

My  child,  I  light  my  lamp  for  thee ; 

Ah !  why  these  tears  that  fill  thine  eyes?  • 
Mother,  he  pines  in  misery  ; 
His  foes  insult  him,  where  he  lies. 
A  child,  still  Adrien  cared  for  me; 
He  made  our  fireside  bright  and  gay. 

Spin,  spin,  poor  Marie, 
To  help  the  prisoner,  far  away  ; 

Spin,  spin,  poor  Marie, 
Spin  for  the  prisoner,  far  away. 


TRANSLATIONS.  245 

My  child,  I  too  for  him  would  spin ; 

But  I  am  old,  so  very  old !  — 
Oh  send  to  him  what  I  shall  win, — 
Oh  send  my  little  hoard  of  gold ! 
I  will  not  at  Rose'  bridal  be  — 
God  !  I  hear  the  fiddler  play ! 

Spin,  spin,  poor  Marie, 
To  help  the  prisoner,  far  away  ; 

Spin,  spin,  poor  Marie, 
Spin  for  the  prisoner,  far  away. 

Draw  near  the  fire,  my  dearest  one ! 

The  night  has  come  to  chill  our  bones.  — 
Mother,  they  tell  me  Adrien 

In  the  damp  floating  dungeons  groans. 

They  smite  the  pale  hand  cruelly 

That  he  on  their  coarse  bread  would  lay. 

Spin,  spin,  poor  Marie, 
To  help  the  prisoner,  far  away ; 

Spin,  spin,  poor  Marie, 
Spin  for  the  prisoner,  far  away. 

My  daughter,  I  have  late  had  dreams, 
In  which  thou  wert  his  happy  wife. 
Before  the  thirtieth  morning  beams, 
'Twill  all  be  real  in  thy  life.  — 
What !     The  budding  grass  will  see 
His  return  for  whom  we  pray ! 

Spin,  spin,  poor  Marie. 
To  help  the  prisoner,  far  away ; 

Spin,  spin,  poor  Marie, 
Spin  for  the  prisoner,  far  away. 


THE  OLD  VAGABOND. 

FROM    BERANGER. 

HERE  in  this  ditch,  I  '11  end  life's  day ; 

I  die  infirm,  and  old,  and  worn  ; 
"  He  's  drunk  !"  the  passers-by  will  say ; 

'T  is  well ;  they  will  not  need  to  mourn. 
21* 


246  TRANSITIONS. 

Some  torn  their  heads  ;  a  few,  at  least ; 

From  others  a  few  sous  are  thrown  ; 
Run  quickly,  hasten  to  the  feast !  — 
Old  vagabond, 

Sure  I  can  die  alone. 

Yes,  here  I  perish  of  old  age, 

For  one  of  hunger  never  dies ; 
I  hoped  th'  asylum  would  assuage, 

At  least,  my  dying  agonies. 
But  every  ward  is  full,  and  worse, 

So  many  people  are  forlorn ! 
The  street,  alas,  was  my  first  nurse. 
Old  vagabond, 

I  '11  die  where  I  was  born. 

To  laborers  I  in  youth  applied  ; 

Teach  me,  I  said,  some  honest  trade ; 
"  Scarce  can  we  for  ourselves  provide  ; 

Go  beg !"  was  the  reply  they  made. 
"  Work !"  said  the  rich.     Some  bones  to  gnaw 

I  had  from  you  ;  I  will  allow ; 
'Tis  true,  I  slept  upon  your  straw. 
Old  vagabond, 

I  will  not  curse  you  now. 

I  could  have  stolen,  I,  poor  wretch ; 

But  no  ;  I  rather  chose  to  be 
A  beggar  ;  or,  at  most,  to  catch 

An  apple  from  the  wayside  tree. 
A  score  of  times  on  me  they  drew 

The  prison  bolts,  by  king's  decree ; 
They  stole  the  only  wealth  I  knew ; 
Old  vagabond, 

The  sun  's  at  least,  for  me. 

A  country  —  has  the  poor  man  one  ? 

For  me,  what  have  your  grain  and  wine, 
Your  industry  and  glory  done  ? 

Your  throngs  of  orators  divine? 
Ah,  when  the  armies  of  the  foe 

Were  fattening  on  your  open  lands, 
How  like  a  fool  my  tears  did  flow ! 
Old  vagabond, 

They  fed  me  from  their  hands. 


TRANSLATIONS.  247 


Men,  will  you  crush  me,  like  a  worm, 

Made  but  to  injure  and  corrode  ? 
Oh,  rather  you  my  life  should  form 

To  labor  for  the  general  good. 
When  sheltered  from  the  adverse  wind, 

The  worm  into  the  ant  will  grow  ; 
I  would  have  cherished  all  mankind. 
Old  vagabond ! 

Alas !  I  die  your  foe. 


THE   WREATH. 

FROM    UHLAND. 

A  LITTLE  maiden  from  the  earth 
Did  many  a  little  blossom  pull ; 

Then  came  there  from  the  green  wood  forth, 
A  lady,  wondrous  beautiful. 

She  met  the  maiden  with  a  smile ; 

She  twined  a  wreath  around  her  hair ; 
"  It  blooms  not  yet,  but  will  erewhile ; 

Oh,  wear  it  ever  there !" 

And  when  the  little  maiden  grew, 

And  roamed  the  moon  and  stars  beneath, 

And  wept  sweet  tear-drops,  tender,  true, 
Then  buds  were  on  the  wreath. 

And  when  her  bridegroom  to  her  heart 
With  tender  love  she  safely  drew, 

The  buds  with  gladness  burst  apart, 
And  into  blossoms  grew. 

And  soon  a  sweet  and  laughing  child 

Her  arms  did  tenderly  enfold  ; 
Then  mid  the  dark  green  foliage  smiled 

A  fruit  of  richest  gold. 

And  when  her  loved  ones  buried  were, 
And  she  left  lonely  in  her  grief, 

Then  waved  around  her  loose  strewn  hair 
A  faded  autumn  leaf. 


248  TRANSLATIONS. 

Soon  lay  she  also  faded  there, 

Yet  still  the  precious  wreath  she  wore, 

Which,  wonderful  beyond  compare, 
Both  fruit  and  blossoms  bore. 


THE  NUN. 

FROM   URLAND. 

THROUGH  the  still  cloister  garden 
Went  a  maiden  pale  and  young, 

Lit  by  the  moon's  dim  flashes  ; 
And  love's  soft  tear-drops  hung 

Upon  her  silken  lashes. 

"Oh,  well  for  me,  my  true  love 

Is  in  the  dusk  laid  low ; 
I  dare  again  to  love  him ; 

He  is  an  angel  now ! 
An  angel,  I  dare  love  him." 

The  image  of  the  Virgin 

She  reached  with  trembling  feet ; 
It  stood  in  the  soft  glimmer ; 

Its  smiles  so  mother-sweet, 
For  loving  did  not  blame  her. 

Sunk  at  its  feet,  upgazing, 

She  in  heavenly  peace  reposed, 

Till  Death,  the  Love-restorer, 
Her  eyelids  softly  closed  : 

Her  veil  waved  downward  o'er  her. 


TO  DEATH. 

FROM    UHLAND. 


THOU  who  silently  at  evening, 

Wanderest  through  earth's  flowery  lea, 
Blossoms  bright  and  golden  fruitage 

Gathering,  which  God  gives  to  thee  ; 


TRANSLATIONS.  249 

Spare,  oh  Death  !  what  soft  enraptured, 

Clinging  on  Life's  bosom  lies, 

Gazing  in  its  mother's  eyes, 
By  her  sweet  songs  gently  captured. 

Leave  the  earth  her  sons  of  pleasure,  — 

They  whose  strength  in  trial  flies  ; 
That  a  joyous,  gladsome  echo, 

Fleetly  from  the  dead  woods  rise  ! 
Quench  thou  not  the  pure  sun-splendor 

Of  the  spirit  of  the  wise  ; 

Which  the  young  moon's  dance  supplies, 
With  a  guidance  meek  and  tender. 

Silently,  on  clouds  of  silver, 

Go  when  starlight  reappears, 
Where  an  old  man  at  his  altar, 

Every  evening  kneels  in  tears. 
Breathe  to  him  names  dear  and  tender  ; 

To  their  circle  bear  him  up, 

Where  no  bitter,  burning  drop 
Dims  the  eye's  eternal  splendor. 

And  the  Youth,  in  whom  Love  wakens 

Yearnings  hot  and  unappeased, 
Who  his  open  arms  outstretches, 

By  a  tameless  impulse  seized  : 
When  to  heaven's  rich  starry  brightness 

He  uplooks  with  passion  warm, 

Seize  him  kindly,  arm  in  arm, 
Bear  him  to  the  blue  remoteness  ! 

Where,  'mid  bridal  sounds  and  glories, 

Breathing  love,  a  form  draws  near, 
Which,  before,  in  spirit  only 

Breathed  soft  greetings  in  his  ear  4 
Where  the  soul  has  May-day  ever 

And  again,  with  new  life  young, 

Dwells  in  everlasting  song^ 
And  in  ecstasy  forever  ! 


250  TRANSLATIONS. 

TO   THE   CHILD   OF   A  POET. 

FROM    UHLAND. 

THOU  Poet-child,  right  welcome  be 
Within  the  golden  door  of  being  ' 

Most  fitly  chosen  gifts  for  thee 
Are  poem  and  prophetic  saying. 

In  mighty  times  dost  thou  awake, 
In  earnest  days  and  full  of  wonder ; 

When  o'er  thy  infant  rest  doth  break 
A  holy  warfare's  solemn  thunder. 

But  thou  art  happy,  sleeping  in 

Hereditary  poet-dreamings 
Of  azure  skies,  and  woodlands  green, 

Of  trees,  and  flowers,  and  starlight  gloamings ! 

Meanwhile  the  storm  has  met  its  doom  ; 

The  clouds  that  dimmed  the  age  have  broken  ; 
Fitly  dost  thou,  a  virgin,  bloom, 

Love's  coming  empire  to  betoken  ! 

What  to  thy  Father's  songs  was  given 
As  merely  prophet  Faith's  foreseeing, 

Shall  from  the  happy  fields  of  heaven, 
As  Life,  rich  Life,  o'erflow  thy  being. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS. 


ANNETTE   LEE. 

IT  was  the  celebration  of  the  holy  eucharist.  The  church 
members  gathered  reverently  around  the  sacred  table,  one  by 
one,  as  they  would  have  approached  the  sanctuary  of  the 
dead.  The  aged  deacon  walked  slowly  up  to  the  side  of  his 
young  pastor,  and  feebly  to  his  own  side  crept  his  faithful 
wife.  It  was  an  aged  company.  There  was  not  one  of  all 
that  holy  band,  that  might  not  have  numbered  threescore 
years,  save  the  youthful  pastor,  and  one  young  girl,  who  had 
stolen  to  the  foot  of  the  table  with  downcast  eyes  and  silent 
step,  a  beautiful  representative  of  the  lowly  Mary,  sitting  at 
Jesus'  feet.  Never  did  a  sweeter  or  holier  flower  offer  its 
incense  at  the  shrine  of  heaven.  Scarce  sixteen  years  had 
cast  their  sunshine  on  her  pathway;  yet  there  she  stood,  in 
communion  with  aged  saints,  consecrating  the  youthful  affec 
tions  of  her  heart  to  the  service  of  her  holy  Master.  Youth, 
purity,  and  beauty,  offering  themselves  at  the  altar  of  heaven ! 
What  a  lovely  example  was  she  to  the  young  sisterhood  of 
Christians  !  What  a  beautiful  model  for  the  study  of  the 
young  daughters  of  Zion  ! 

For  a  week  she  had  watched  ceaselessly  at  the  bedside  of 
her  sick  mother ;  and  it  was  only  for  the  blessed  privilege 
of  partaking  of  the  holy  supper,  that  she  had  now  for  the  first 
time  left  her.  No  wonder,  then,  that  her  cheek  was  pale,  and 
her  eyes  sad  with  tears.  Once,  and  once  only,  did  she  raise 
them,  as  she  approached  the  table  of  the  sacrament.  It  was 
to  glance  at  the  vacant  place  beside  her  own  —  the  place  which 
her  mother  had  occupied  for  years.  Sadly  again,  the  long, 


252  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

silken  lashes  drooped  over  her  blue  eyes,  as  she  folded  her 
dimpled  hands  upon  her  heart,  and  bowed  her  head  at  the 
blessing  of  the  sacred  feast.  A  sigh  rose  from  every  bosom  in 
the  aged  circle,  as  the  meek  young  creature  stood  so  sadly 
before  them  —  she  who  was  the  lamb  of  their  passover  —  the 
sweet  rainbow  that  shed  brightness  over  their  holy  vineyard. 
They  felt  that  she  was  soon  to  be  an  orphan ;  that  the  fond 
mother  who  had  cherished  her,  as  she  would  have  cherished 
a  tropical  flower,  who  had  led  her  from  her  earliest  years  to 
the  tabernacle  of  her  Lord,  and  opened  her  young  mind  to  the 
light  of  the  gospel,  was  to  be  taken  shortly  to  her  grave. 
And  where,  thought  they,  will  the  young  dove  find  a  shelter  ? 
Who  will  be  to  her  a  mother,  and  watch  over  her  with  the 
untiring  solicitude  of  her  own  beloved  parent  ? 

Edward  Marion,  the  young  clergyman  who  had  that  day 
ministered  to  them  for  the  first  time,  was  as  much  startled  at 
the  appearance  of  the  maiden,  as  though  a  vision  of  heaven 
had  burst  upon  his  sight.  Could  this  be  Annette  Lee,  the 
lady  whom  Deacon  Gray  had  pictured  forth  to  him  as  a  pattern 
Christian  —  an  exact  model  of  the  good  Dorcas  of  Scripture 
celebrity  ?  Surely,  it  was  not  the  Annette  Lee  of  his  imagi 
nation;  the  tall,  dark,  sober  woman  of  some  twenty-five  or 
thirty  years  of  age,  that  had  been  shadowed  forth  by  his 
fancy,  as  a  just  personification  of  the  sober  picture  drawn  by 
the  good  deacon,  of  her  goodness,  and  virtue,  and  unostenta 
tious  piety.  If  he  had  but  added  the  terms  youth  and  beauty, 
the  young  minister  might  have  formed  a  more  perfect  concep 
tion.  But  of  these  Deacon  Gray  was  altogether  unmindful ; 
they  were  charms  lost  to  him,  in  the  preferment  of  her  nobler 
qualifications.  He  thought  only  of  her  innocence,  fidelity, 
and  Christian  deportment,  and  therefore  of  these  only  did  he 
speak. 

Yet  the  image  which  Marion  had  formed  was  a  natural 
one ;  one  which  experience  (alas  !  that  this  experience  should 
be  so  universal)  had  taught  him  to  be  correct,  as  embodying 
the  spirit  and  principles  of  Christianity  in  a  form  distinct  from 
youth  and  beauty ;  and  as  arraying  religion  in  garments  of 
stern  plainness  and  sanctimonious  simplicity.  But  for  once, 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  253 

he  found  religion  coalesced  with  extreme  youth  and  exquisite 
beauty ;  for  once,  he  found  the  spirit  of  true  piety  dwelling  in 
the  heart  of  a  beautiful  young  maiden.  What  a  glorious, 
what  a  holy  dwelling-place !  How  fit  for  the  residence  of 
faithful  and  devoted  piety !  And  yet  how  seldom  is  it  made 
its  home  ;  how  seldom  does  it  preside,  the  divinity  —  the  guar 
dian  spirit  of  the  youthful  affections  !  Maidens,  sisters,  open 
your  hearts,  and  bid  it  welcome  to  an  everlasting  habitation. 
Its  office  is  to  suppress  exuberant  gayety,  to  subdue  pride  and 
vanity,  and  to  guard  the  sweet  affections  of  our  youth  from 
every  vile  obtrusion.  And  where  can  it  find  a  throne,  like 
the  heart  of  an  innocent  girl  ?  Where  can  it  find  a  crown  so 
becoming  as  youth  and  beauty  ? 

The  young  clergyman  lifted  the  silver  cup  to  his  lips  : 
"  Let  us  drink  to  the  memory  of  our  Saviour,"  said  he,  "  the 
Saviour  of  the  world ! "  and  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  con 
tinued,  "  Redeemer,  crucified  Redeemer,  this  do  we,  in  remem 
brance  of  thee."  There  was  an  eloquence  in  his  voice,  and 
an  inspiration  in  his  eye,  as  he  pronounced  these  emphatic 
words,  that  called  a  celestial  glow  to  the  fair  cheek  of  Annette 
Lee,  and  lighted  up  her  eye  with  the  lustre  of  a  seraph's. 
There  was  a  holy  enthusiasm  burning  upon  the  altar  of  her 
heart,  that  needed  but  one  breath  of  the  spirit  of  its  genius,  to 
kindle  it  to  a  flame  that  would  flash  out  beyond  its  own  sanc 
tuary,  and  impart  its  warmth  to  the  souls  of  others.  The  dim 
eyes  of  the  old  men  and  women  caught  life  and  spirit  from 
hers,  and  their  voices  grew  strong  and  harmonious,  as  th  ty 
uttered  a  fervent  response  to  the  sacred  sentiment  of  th»  ir 
devout  pastor.  Edward  Marion  looked  around  upon  the  pioi  s 
group,  so  richly  endowed  with  spiritual  gifts;  and  felt  that  he 
was  blest  indeed,  to  be  the  chosen  pastor  of  so  faithful  a  flock 
The  aged  minister,  who  had  for  many  years  presided  over  the 
spiritual  empire  of  the  church,  had  lately  gone  to  his  grave  ; 
and  of  the  respectable  body  of  Christians  who  had  formerly 
united  themselves  under  his  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction,  only 
twelve  now  remained.  He  was  a  pious  and  godly  man,  and 
had  been  remarkable  for  preserving  peace  and  unity  in  the 
church ;  but  he  lacked  the  energy  and  enthusiasm  requisite 
22 


254  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

for  overpowering  prejudice  —  the  mightiest  obstacle  in  the 
pathway  of  truth  —  or  for  fanning  the  fire  in  the  souls  of  his 
hearers,  to  anything  more  than  a  dallying  flame,  which,  by 
its  wavering  and  uncertain  light,  tantalized  their  hopes  and 
anticipations,  till  they  expired  from  very  weariness.  The  only 
accession  which  had  been  made  to  the  church  since  its  first 
organization,  was  our  sweet  Annette ;  and  it  was  more  through 
the  persuasions  of  her  devoted  mother,  and  the  holy  impulses 
of  her  own  heart,  than  any  influence  of  the  good  pastor,  that 
even  she  was  added  to  that  small  company  of  saints.  It  can 
not  be  wondered,  then,  that  some  golden  visions  should  flit 
through  the  brain  of  their  new  pastor,  young  as  he  was,  and 
with  a  soul  full  of  bright  promises  and  glorious  anticipations. 
It  cannot  be  wondered  that  his  heart  grew  light  with  hope, 
and  his  soul  warm  with  zeal,  as  he  looked  upon  the  great 
work  before  him,  —  a  limitless  work  of  enfranchisement  and 
salvation. 

True  piety  is  the  touchstone  of  the  heart.  There  is  a 
magic  in  it  that  opens  the  sealed  fountains  of  the  soul,  —  that 
wakens  scintillations  in  every  ray  of  its  holy  light,  and  that 
calls  forth  life,  and  beauty,  and  harmony,  from  even  the 
marble  heart,  that  is  shrunk  in  the  miser's  breast.  It  kindled 
a  flame  in  the  soul  of  Marion,  that  rose  to  heaven.  His  eye 
grew  even  brighter,  and  his  voice  more  eloquent,  as  the  com 
munion  hymn  swelled  up  from  his  lips ;  and  his  tall,  slight 
frame  seemed  nerved  with  more  than  human  energy.  For  a 
few  moments  his  voice  was  solitary ;  but  presently  a  sound, 
low,  sweet,  and  tremulous,  stole  from  another  of  the  worship 
pers,  and  grew  stronger,  clearer,  and  richer,  till  it  seemed-  the 
very  minstrelsy  of  an  angel.  Every  eye  was  filled  with  tears 
—  tears  of  love,  thanksgiving  and  joy,  and  every  soul  was 
exhilarated  with  the  fervor  of  its  hopes,  and  the  intensity  of 
its  devotion.  Every  power  and  principle  of  their  natures  — 
their  thoughts,  their  hopes,  and  their  affections,  were  mingled 
together  in  the  triumph  of  that  song.  It  seemed  to  them  that 
the  veil  was  already  rent,  and  that  the  glory  of  the  New 
Jerusalem  was  shining  round  about  them.  Here  was  none 
of  the  pomp  and  ceremony  of  a  Romish  carnival,  no  false  form. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  255 

of  fashion  or  Pharisaical  sanctity,  to  dazzle  the  eye  and  pall 
the  soul ;  but  there  was  nature  —  free,  impulsive,  enthusiastic 
nature,  welling  up  from  the  deep  heart,  and  coursing  its  way 
to  the  boundless  waters  of  eternal  life.  What  a  scene  for  the 
infidel  to  look  upon  !  Let  him  "  who  scoffs  at  piety  and 
heaven,"  —  who  ridicules  the  holy  name  of  Jesus,  and  bows 
to  the  dark  idol  that  his  own  imagination  has  created  —  let 
such  an  one  enter  the  tabernacle  of  the  Almighty,  where  his 
worship  is  set  up  in  the  heart,  and  kindled  by  the  rays  of  his 
everlasting  love ;  where  forms  are  forgotten,  and  fashion  has 
no  sway;  where  the  souls  of  the  worshippers  become  trans 
parent,  and  their  hearts  are  seen  without  a  blemish,  and  he 
will  feel  a  chord  in  his  own  soul  thrilled  by  the  magic  touch ; 
a  chord  that  may  have  lain  senseless,  but  is  not  dead  —  that, 
like  an  JEolian  lyre,  needs  but  a  constant  breath,  to  yield 
undying  melody. 

Three  months  followed  the  day  of  sacrament,  and  Marion 
stood  by  the  death-bed  of  Mrs.  Lee.  Consumption,  with  its 
pale  fingers,  had  been  slowly  and  almost  imperceptibly  sever 
ing  the  silver  chord  of  life,  and  its  submissive  victim  lay 
patiently  awaiting  the  finishing  stroke  that  was  to  make  her 
spirit  free.  Marion,  with  Annette,  had  been  the  patient,  and 
almost  constant  guardian  of  her  bedside,  watching  through  the 
long  summer  days,  and  planting  flowers  in  the  dark  pathway 
that  leads  to  the  silent  chambers  of  death.  Not  a  cloud  drew 
near,  to  dim  the  spirit  of  the  sufferer.  Every  doubt  was 
removed,  every  fearful  thought  was  driven  away ;  not  a  feel 
ing  of  her  heart  was  unweaned  from  earth.  Even  her'beloved 
daughter,  the  sweet  priestess  of  her  heart,  who  had  tuned  the 
broken  harp  of  her  widowed  affections  to  a  new  melody  —  the 
melody  of  a  mother's  love,  —  the  meek  and.  uncomplaining 
angel,  who  had  clung  unweariedly  to  her  bedside  through  the 
long  months  of  her  illness,  and  who  was  now  resigning  her 
with  the  submission  of  a  martyr  to  the  outspread  arms  of  her 
Redeemer,  even  she,  had  now  no  fetters  to  bind  her  heart  to 
earth. 

The  white  muslin  curtain  had  been  drawn  aside,  and  the 
pink  blossoms  of  the  honey-suckle  peeped  through  the  trellised 


256  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

window,  to  look  on  the  death-scene  of  a  Christian.  The  sun 
had  gathered  his  last,  lingering  rays  beneath  the  drapery  of 
his  couch,  and  the  pale  twilight  had  drawn  its  silver  curtains 
around  the  soft,  faint  stars.  The  cool  breath  of  the  evening 
stole  through  the  green  lattice,  and  stirred  the  chords  of  an 
jtEolian  harp,  which  had  been  placed  in  the  window  at  the 
request  of  Mrs.  Lee,  to  beguile  the  weary  moments  of  a  tedious 
illness.  Annette  would  have  removed  it.  "  Nay,  Annette, 
let  it  stay.  I  love  those  tones  —  so  sweet,  so  celestial,  so 
ethereal ;  they  seem  like  the  voice  of  a  welcoming  spirit,  call 
ing  me  to  my  eternal  home.  This  is  the  happiest  hour  of  my 
life.  I  have  long  thought  of  death,  as  a  beautiful  entrance  to 
my  father's  fold,  —  a  quiet  way  by  which  to  enter  the  pastures 
of  my  good  Shepherd  —  but  never,  never  did  I  know  the  joy, 
the  ecstatic  joy,  that  is  this  moment  lighting  up  my  soul  with 
the  brightness  of  heaven.  It  is  the  shadow  of  celestial  peace 
—  the  dawning  of  Elysian  light  —  the  first,  sweet,  faint  glow 
of  an  eternal  radiance.  It  is  a  joy  that  has  no  tincture  of 
earth  —  that  takes  its  hue  from  the  ray  that  streams  through 
the  arches  of  heaven.  How  many  a  bitter  pang  might  my 
poor  heart  have  been  spared,  had  this  light  beamed  upon  it  in 
early  life.  Oh  !  death  teaches  us  a  glorious  lesson  !  The 
mist  that  clouds  our  mental  perception  in  hours  of  life,  fades 
before  the  brightness  that  is  shed  upon  our  dying  moments  — 
and  in  those  few  moments  we  see  with  the  clear  vision  of 
Deity.  The  frailties  and  follies  of  human  nature — the  crimes 
and  vices  that  are  so  magnified  by  the  haziness  that  is  spread 
before  our  moral  perception  in  hours  of  health,  when  seen  by 
the  clear  light  of  celestial  mercy  that  hallows  our  hearts  in 
our  dying  hours,  seem  like  mere  points  of  darkness  upon  a 
broad  surface  of  light  —  and  we  trace  so  distinctly,  too,  the 
clear  outline  of  their  shadows  —  the  miseries  and  wretched 
ness  that  follow  in  their  train  —  that  it  seems  to  us,  could  we 
retain  this  knowledge  in  our  minds,  and  be  brought  back  again 
to  the  entrance  of  life's  pathway,  to  walk  once  more  within  its 
flowery  borders,  that  we  could  easily  avoid  the  deadly  night 
shades  that  spring  up  amid  its  richest  clusters,  and  feast  our 
selves  upon  all  the  joys  and  excellences  of  earth,  as  freely,  and 


PROSE   SELECTIONS.  257 

as  unharmed,  as  though  the  noxious  poison  were  uprooted 
forever  from  its  soil."  She  paused  a  few  moments  to  recover 
strength,  and  then  proceeded :  "  I  might  have  some  fears  of 
leaving  you,  my  Annette,  so  alone  in  the  world  —  without 
father  or  mother  to  shield  you  —  but  I  have  trust  in  the  guar 
dianship  of  a  mightier  Friend ;  and  I  know  that  your  own 
pure  and  innocent  heart  is  a  talisman,  of  itself,  to  keep  it  sacred 
from  the  touch  of  sin.  You  have  offered  the  sweet  incense 
of  your  young  affections  at  the  shrine  of  heaven  —  offer  it 
there  still,  my  beloved  daughter ;  and  the  vain  idols  of  earth 
will  have  no  power  to  enforce  your  worship.  The  golden 
crown  that  heaven  will  lay  upon  your  head,  will  have  a  wealth 
that  all  the  idols  of  the  earth  could  never  purchase  —  the 
wealth  of  a  pure  conscience  and  a  happy  heart." 

There  is  something  mournful  in  death,  even  when  it  comes 
in  its  kindest  aspect ;  and  Annette's  sensitive  heart,  so  easily 
affected  by  a  shade  of  grief,  felt,  to  its  very  core,  the  deep, 
celestial  tenderness  of  her  mother's  love  —  and  the  touching 
beauty  of  its  expiring  brightness  fell  with  a  powerful  energy 
upon  her  soul,  that  melted  it  to  tears. 

"  Few  orators  so  tenderly  can  touch 
The  feeling  heart." 

Annette  was  one  of  the  meekest,  most  trusting,  and  unexact- 
ing  of  God's  creatures.  His  will  was  her  law;  she  never 
asked  of  him  a  blessing  that  would  require  a  miraculous  dis 
play  of  power  to  bestow ;  she  never  pleaded  for  exemption 
from  any  of  the  afflictions  of  earth ;  and  though  she  felt  her 
heart  torn  and  bleeding  by  the  stroke  that  death  was  now 
inflicting,  yet  no  murmur  escaped  her  lips  ;  she  asked  for  no 
escape,  no  relief —  she  knew  that  it  was  right,  and  why  should 
she  repine,  or  wish  to  alter  the  purpose  of  God  ?  Her 
Saviour's  prayer  was  hers,  "  Thy  will,  O  God,  not  mine,  be 
done." 

The  faith  that  had  early  sprung  up  in  her  heart  like  a  ten 
der  plant,  had  been  fed  and  nourished,  till  it  had  rooted  itself 
in  the  deep  fountains  of  the  soul,  and  drank  in  its  immortal 
nature.     It  was  a  faith  independent,  irrepressible,  and  eternal, 
22* 


FROSE    SELECTIONS. 

growing  brighter  beneath  clouds,  and  stronger  in  the  tempest. 
She  stood  leaning  over  her  mother,  and  gazing  into  the  clear 
depths  of  her  full  blue  eyes,  which  had  gradually  faded  from 
an  almost  preternatural  brightness,  till  the  last  ray  of  intelli 
gence  was  dying  from  their  surface.  Annette  started  as  she 
saw  the  dark  mist  of  death  gathering  like  a  shroud  above 
them,  and  clasped  her  arms  wildly  about  her  mother's  neck. 
She  feared  to  behold  the  dying  struggle  —  she  imagined  there 
was  something  in  it  appalling  to  her  gentle  nature.  A  sudden 
brightness  again  flashed  to  the  mother's  eye,  and  she  started 
from  her  pillow  and  placed  her  hand  upon  her  daughter's 
head.  Annette  knelt  —  and  Marion  stood  by  her  side,  and 
took  her  hand.  A  smile  gathered  upon  the  dying  woman's 
lips — she  half  murmured  a  blessing  —  sunk  back  upon  her 
pillow  —  and  raising  her  eyes  to  heaven,  like  a  lamb  to  its 
shepherd,  yielded  her  spirit  to  the  God  who  gave  it. 

"  0  death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ?  "  It  is  in  the  heart  of  those 
who  have  no  hope  in  God  —  in  the  soul  of  the  infidel  and 
the  unbeliever  —  but  never,  never  in  the  soul  of  the  Christian. 
"  Thanks  be  to  God,  that  hath  given  such  the  victory :"  it  is 
their  reward  —  the  finishing  reward  of  their  piety  and  faith 
fulness  —  their  last  and  richest  recompense. 

Annette  was  not  left  alone.  She  found  a  home  in  the 
heart  of  one  who  loved  her;  of  one  who  had  seen  her  in  the 
service  of  the  temple,  unshackled  by  the  rigid  restraints  of 
fashion,  impulsively  throwing  open  the  doors  of  her  heart,  and 
letting  its  sweet  affections  walk  forth  to  the  baptism ;  one 
who  had  seen  her  at  the  sick  bed  of  a  parent,  forgetful  of  self 
in  the  soft  ministrations  of  filial  love ;  one  who  had  seen  her 
resign  that  parent  to  the  arms  of  death,  without  a  murmur,  a 
despondent  sigh,  and  almost  without  a  tear.  Had  Marion 
met  her  in  a  giddy  throng,  "mid  fashion's  votaries,"  he  might 
never  have  known  the  wealth  of  her  spotless  heart ;  but  he 
had  seen  her  in  trial  and  in  grief;  and  the  priceless  pearl  had 
remained  untarnished,  and  won  his  soul. 

1836. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

THE  MARTYR. 

THERE  is  a  simple  tale  related  in  the  annals  of  martyrdom, 
that  most  beautifully  illustrates  the  power  of  the  Christian 
faith,  in  strengthening  the  heart  for  the  most  fearful  trials, 
temptation,  persecution,  and  death.  It  is  the  tragic  story  of 
Joan  Lashford.  one  of  the  long  lists  of  martyrs  who  suffered 
in  Mary's  reign.  Her  unassuming  name  has  found  but  a 
shaded  recess  in  history,  for  the  brilliancy  of  greater  names 
has  cast  a  veil  over  the  starlike  beauty  of  her  character  —  its 
tenderness  and  meekness,  its  truth  and  constancy,  its  fortitude 
and  faith. 

Her  way  was  in  the  humble  walks  of  life ;  but  manifesta 
tions  of  moral  beauty  are  not  dependent  upon  outward  lights, 
—  rank,  opulence,  and  brilliant  genius ;  they  are  revelations 
made  by  the  spiritual  light  of  innocence  and  piety,  and  are  as 
often  visible  in  the  deeds  of  the  lowly-hearted  peasant,  as  in 
the  proud  performances  of  lords  and  kings.  The  rank  and 
genius  that  have  made  Cranmer  and  Latimer  so  eminent  in 
the  history  of  martyrdoms,  have  added  no  lustre  to  the  name 
we  would  commemorate.  Joan  was  not  noble  in  birth  and 
station,  but  in  mind  and  deed;  she  was  not  gifted  with  wis 
dom  and  eloquence,  but  with  a  pure  spirit  and  a  faithful 
heart ;  and  are  not  these  the  only  true  distinctions  of  great 
ness?  It  mattered  little  to  her  that  the  volumes  of  mystic 
lore  were  sealed  —  that  the  oracles  of  classic  wisdom  were 
hidden  mysteries ;  the  only  volume  that  she  cared  to  unclasp, 
yielded  its  truths  to  her  simplest  intelligence ;  and  the  oracle 
of  infinite  wisdom,  the  only  one  that  she  consulted,  needed  no 
interpretation  but  such  as  was  afforded  by  the  natural  percep 
tions  of  her  clear  and  vigorous  mind. 

Joan's  early  years  were  passed  in  the  service  of  Dr.  Story, 
her  kinsman  —  an  intolerant  Catholic,  and  violent  persecutor 
of  dissenters.  His  faithlessness  and  duplicity,  his  taunting 
insolence  and  tyrannical  oppression,  are  almost  without  parallel. 
It  was  a  proud  boast  of  his,  that  there  had  never  been  one 
burnt  in  Queen  Mary's  reign,  of  whose  death  he  had  not  been 
the  chief  cause.  What  a  misfortune  to  a  helpless  maiden,  to 


260  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

be  held  in  the  power  of  such  a  man !  Before  Joan  had  com 
pleted  her  twentieth  year,  her  parents,  being  suspected  of 
cherishing  heretical  sentiments,  were  arrested  and  cast  into 
prison.  Here  their  affectionate  daughter  ministered  to  them 
in  their  sorrow.  But  the  jealous  eye  of  bigotry  was  a  witness 
of  her  holy  missions  ;  she,  too,  was  arrested,  and  after  a  short 
examination  before  the  bishop,  was  conveyed  to  Newgate. 
That  loathsome  habitation  of  vice  was  for  many  months  the 
home  of  a  tender  female,  whose  only  crime  was  fidelity  to  her 
Saviour. 

At  this  time,  Dr.  Story,  probably  influenced  by  a  selfish 
desire  of  preserving  the  life  of  a  faithful  servant,  made  inter 
cession  to  Dr.  Martin,  who  then  held  the  office  of  commis 
sioner,  both  for  Joan  and  her  parents;  and  being  a  man  of 
considerable  influence,  his  efforts  spared  their  lives.  But  it 
was  only  for  a  short  time.  He  was  himself,  soon  after,  ap 
pointed  commissioner,  and  desirous  of  displaying  his  zeal  in 
the  cause  of  the  queen,  "  so  far  forgot  himself  and  his  old 
servant,"  says  the  historian,  "  that  he  became  no  small  pro 
curer  of  their  deaths;"  thus  furnishing  another  instance  of 
the  evil  effects  of  power  upon  the  human  heart. 

After  the  martyrdom  of  her  parents,  Joan  was  again  brought 
before  the  bishop.  But  her  faith  was  unwavering ;  she  was 
neither  moved  by  his  temptations,  nor  intimidated  by  his 
threats.  He  questioned  her  concerning  her  faith ;  to  which 
she  replied,  "For  more  than  twelve  months  I  have  come  unto 
no  popish  mass,  nor  service  of  the  church ;  neither  will  I, 
either  to  receive  the  sacrament  of  the  altar  or  to.be  confessed, 
because  my  conscience  will  not  permit  me  so  to  do.  And  I 
do  confess  and  protest  that  in  the  sacrament  of  the  altar,  there 
is  not  the  real  presence  of  Christ's  body  and  blood,  neither  is 
the  auricular  confession  or  absolution,  after  the  popish  sort, 
necessary,  nor  is  the  mass  good,  or  according  unto  the  Scrip 
ture;  but  all  the  superfluous  sacraments,  ceremonies,  and 
divine  service,  as  now  used  in  the  realm  of  England,  are  most 
vile,  and  contrary  to  Christ's  words  and  institution,  for  they 
neither  were  at  the  beginning,  neither  shall  they  be  at,the  end." 

What  a  dauntless  confession  for  a  delicate  girl  to  make  to 


PROSE   SELECTIONS.  261 

a  powerful  and  cruel  bishop,  with  the  view  of  a  fearful  mar 
tyrdom  before  her  —  within  very  sight,  as  it  were,  of  the 
crackling  fagot,  and  the  scorching  flame  !  The  bishop  then 
exhorted  her  to  return  to  the  church. 

"  If  you  will  leave  off  your  abominations,"  she  fearlessly 
replied,  "  I  will  return ;  otherwise,  I  will  not." 

Bonner  still  persisted,  promising  her  pardon  of  all  her  errors, 
if  she  would  be  conformed,  to  which  she  answered,  "Do  as  it 
pleaseth  you,  and  I  pray  God  that  you  may  do  that  which 
may  please  God." 

She  was  condemned,  and  with  five  others,  brought  to  the 
stake;  and,  in  the  language  of  the  historian,  "there  washed 
her  garments  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb,  dying  most  constantly 
for  his  word  and  truth,  to  whom,  most  lovingly,  she  espoused 
herself." 

We  regret  that  the  historian  has  passed  so  lightly  over  her 
death.  We  could  wish  that  he  had  omitted  one  "ghostly 
letter"  of  John  Bradford,  or  one  holy  epistle  of  Nicholas  Shet- 
terden,  and  devoted  the  page  to  the  perishing  of  that  meek 
flower,  whose  youth  and  sweetness  were  sacrificed  without 
the  incense  of  one  tear,  perhaps,  for  she  was  a  lonely  orphan, 
a  desolate  blossom,  crushed  in  her  solitary  loveliness,  by  the 
reckless  tread  of  bigotry  and  persecution.  We  cannot  but 
regret  that  the  last  revelations  of  that  godlike  spirit  were 
suffered  to  pass  away,  unnoted  in  their  wondrous  beauty; 
and  that  the  sweet  inspirations  of  faith  and  hope,  which  her 
gentle  voice  may  have  uttered  through  the  drapery  of  flames 
that  consumed  her,  should  have  died  away  unheard,  like  the 
melody  of  a  lone  harp. 

We  have  drawn  no  colors  from  fiction  to  aid  in  the  embel 
lishment  of  our  picture  ;  there  is  a  majesty  in  its  plain  truth, 
that  would  be  only  weakened  by  the  glare  of  a  false  light.  A 
fair  creature,  in  the  freshness  of  her  young  life,  forsaking  its 
hopes  and  its  joys,  and  in  the  pious  adoration  of  an  humble 
heart,  yielding  herself  to  the  cruelties  of  a  dreadful  martyr 
dom,  rather  than  prove  false  to  the  doctrines  of  a  loved  Re 
deemer,  is  a  picture  that  needs  but  the  simple  light  of  its  own 
reality,  to  startle  us  with  its  surprising  beauty. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

There  is  a  dark  catalogue  of  scenes  like  this  portrayed  upon 
the  historic  page ;  and  many  of  them,  we  grieve  to  say  it, 
have  been  witnessed  in  the  gardens  of  our  own  fair  land.  And 
even  yet,  that  spirit  of  intolerance,  that  "  holy  audaciousness," 
(as  the  Dominican  friar  defined  it,)  which  doomed  the  Pro 
testant  maiden  to  the  stake,  is  lingering  among  the  beautiful 
vineyards  of  Zion,  and  breathing  its  feverish  malignance  upon 
the  rich  fruitage  that  it  cannot  blight.  The  same  spirit  is  yet 
alive,  not  walking  abroad  in  noonday  light,  and  covering  the 
earth  with  gloom  and  desolation,  as  in  the  days  of  its  su 
premacy,  but  brooding  in  darkness,  and  cowering  in  secret 
places,  keeping  a  vigilant  and  envious  eye  upon  the  glorious 
up-building  of  the  kingdom  which  it  would  vainly  seek  to 
destroy. 

1837. 


ELEONORA,  THE  SHAKERESS. 

"  THERE,  there  !  Nathan,  seest  that  long  silver  line  of  mist 
rising  from  that  dark  old  forest  ?  'T  is  the  token  of  a  hidden 
river  —  I  verily  believe  me,  there  lies  the  actual  gold-bedded 
stream  we  seek ! "  exclaimed  the  beautiful  little  enthusiast, 
who  sat  in  the  front  of  a  long  covered  wagon,  to  an  elderly, 
intelligent-looking  man  by  her  side.  "  Oh,  I  do  hope  so  !  I 
almost  think  I  can  see  the  glimmer  of  a  blue  lake,  just  such 
as  dear  old  brother  Simon  described  in  his  testament." 

"  Hush,  Eleonora,"  replied  old  Nathan,  fondly,  taking  off 
his  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  holding  it  up  before  his  eyes,  to 
screen  them  from  the  full  blaze  of  the  rising  sun,  that  he 
might  scrutinize  the  spot  pointed  out  by  the  little  sister ; 
"  hush,  giddy  thing  !  more  like  it  is  the  glimmer  of  your  own 
blue  eyes  —  for  do  you  not  see  that  all  before  us  is  one  un 
broken  extent  of  forest,  and  that  if  there  were  a  sheet  of  water 
concealed  there,  your  eyes  could  not  penetrate  all  that  mass 
of  trunks  and  leaves  to  discover  it  ?  " 

"  But  my  eyes  are  young,  and  yours  are  old  and  dim,  Na 
than.  I  declare,  I  do  see  water  through  the  trees  !  Look 
steady  a  moment  —  how  it  sparkles  in  the  sunbeams  !  I 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  263 

claim  the  great  discovery  of  Simon's  western  estate  ! "  and 
her  light  laugh  rang  like  liquid  melody  along  the  adjacent 
forest-borders,  as  she  started  to  her  feet  and  held  out  her  little 
mittened  hand  with  an  air  of  pomposity  ;  "  bear  witness,  all, 
that  Eleonora  Fay  is  justly  entitled  to  the  honor  of  bestowing 
her  own  name  upon  that  bed  of  water,  and  that  it  is  no  longer 
'  Simon's  Lake,'  but  Eleonora's  Lake,  or  Lake  Eleonora. 
May  n't  it  be  so,  Nathan  ?  "  she  begged,  with  an  eager  voice, 
seconded  by  an  eloquent  appeal  from  her  clear  large  eyes, 
whose  petitions,  she  well  knew,  were  ?iever  refused. 

"  Yea,  child,  if  it  prove  to  be  what  we  seek,  you  shall  make 
it  your  namesake ;  but,  for  my  part,  I  can  see  nothing  like 
what  you  speak  of,  though  there  is,  to  be  sure,  a  veil  of  mist 
at  some  distance  yonder.  How  is  it,  Mary,  do  you  see  any 
thing  marvellous  ?" 

The  woman  addressed  leaned  forward  in  the  'carriage,  and 
strained  her  eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of -what  the  little  beauty 
so  resolutely  persisted  in  declaring  to  be  distinctly  visible. 
"  Yea,  most  certainly  there  is  water  there,  but  may  be  it  is 
not  '  Simon's  Lake,'  after  all.  However,  I  think  we  may  as 
well  stop  and  take  our  breakfast,  and  after  that,  send  some  of 
the  brethren  to  explore  the  forest,  for  we  cannot,  at  all  events, 
be  far  from  the  place  of  our  destination." 

"  Well,  well,  may  be  so,"  replied  Nathan ;  "  take  the  reins, 
while  I  alight  and  consult  the  brethren."  In  rear  of  the  car 
riage  containing  our  friends,  Nathan,  Mary,  and  Eleonora, 
besides  half  a  dozen  sisters  whom  we  have  not  introduced  to 
our  readers,  followed  two  carriages  of  similar  construction, 
containing  about  an  equal  number  of  persons,  male  and 
female  —  still  further  in  the  rear,  followed  a  baggage-team, 
drawn  by  six  strong,  plump  horses,  their  warm  breaths  smok 
ing  in  the  cool  morning  air,  and  their  sleek  sides  moist,  as 
though  their  matin  travel  had  been  rapid,  and  of  considerable 
extent. 

After  some  consultation  between  the  elder  and  his  brethren, 
in  which  it  was  decided  that  Mary's  advice  was  worthy  of 
being  followed,  the  carriages  were  speedily  vacated,  the  horses 
detached,  and  the  whole  party  grouped  beneath  the  ancient 


264  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

forest  trees,  that  in  their  long  and  glorious  existence,  had 
never  looked  down  upon  an  assemblage  of  beings,  so  unique 
and  picturesque,  as  the  small  fraternity  of  Shakers  now  clus 
tered  beneath  their  boughs.  The  drab-colored  broad-brims 
and  long  rounded  jackets,  the  plain  peculiar  coats  and  blue 
yarn  stockings  of  the  men,  were  curiously  contrasted  with 
the  scant  pressed-flannel  gowns,  narrow  gray  cloaks  and  close 
no-crowned  bonnets  of  the  women,  who  were  bustling  about 
with  their  characteristic  notableness,  preparing  breakfast, 
while  the  brethren  waited  upon  their  lusty,  well-fed  animals. 
Tea-kettles  were  soon  boiling,  potatoes  roasting,  and  pork  fry 
ing  at  short  intervals  about  the  sylvan  tabernacle,  whilst  little 
Eleonora  stood  with  glistening  eyes,  admiring  the  strange 
and,  to  her  mind,  exciting  spectacle. 

"  And  so,  Mary,"  said  she  to  the  tall,  dignified  matron  we 
have  before  mentioned,  who  sat  superintending  the  operations 
of  the  subordinates,  "  this  is  breakfasting  in  an  Ohio  wild- 
wood,  is  it  not  ?  I  had  no  idea  before  of  such  a  scene.  It 
reminds  me  of  the  gypsy  parties  you  have  told  me  about,  only 
our  dresses  are  not  so  fantastic." 

"  You  are  just  about  wild  enough  for  a  young  gypsy,"  re 
plied  the  eldress,  pleasantly ;  "  come  and  see  if  there  is  not 
something  to  tame  you  here,"  leading  her  to  the  long  table 
which  was  spread  beneath  the  trees.  The  whole  party  were 
collected  at  the  feast  with  appetites  Avhetted  by  long  absti 
nence  and  that  peculiar  stimulant  which  is  natural  to  wood 
lands,  and  is  said  to  give  such  a  strong  zest  to  every  species 
of  aliment,  from  the  richest  roast,  down  to  a  cold  potato  ;  and 
while  they  are  satiating  those  cravings  of  nature,  that,  with 
all  their  warrings  against  nature,  they  have  never  been  able 
to  conquer,  we  will  gratify  the  curiosity  of  our  readers,  if  we 
may  be  allowed  the  vanity  to  suppose  we  have  awakened  any, 
by  detailing  briefly  their  origin  and  destination. 

They  were  the  better  portion  of  a  large  society  of  Connecti 
cut  Shakers,  who  were  about  to  make  a  settlement  upon  an 
extensive  estate,  deeded  to  them  a  few  months  before,  by  an 
aged  brother  upon  his  death-bed.  Nathan  and  Mary  had  for 
many  years  been  elders  of  the  church,  and  bore  as  unlimited 


FROSE    SELECTIONS.  265 

sway  over  the  subjects  of  their  little  territory,  as  the  haughti 
est  autocrat  that  ever  wielded  the  sceptre  of  an  empire.  So 
long  accustomed  to  their  imperative  dictation,  the  fraternity 
had  learned  to  feel  no  surprise  at  the  most  novel  project  that 
might  be  set  on  foot  by  these  petty  despots,  and  obeyed  their 
requirements  as  unresistingly  as  the  "  world's  people"  submit 
to  the  laws  of  nature  and  expediency.  Indeed,  there  could 
not  be  much  regret  occasioned  by  the  relinquishment  of  the 
statute  books  into  less  authoritative  hands,  for  though  Nathan 
and  Mary  were  more  profound  legislators,  they  were  far  less 
lenient  executives  than  their  successors. 

Nathan  had  graduated  at  a  university  in  early  life,  and  had 
commenced  the  practice  of  law,  when  a  serious  disappointment 
of  the  heart  prostrated,  for  a  time,  his  health  and  reason.  His 
recovery  was  attended  by  a  kind  of  sullen  misanthropy,  which 
induced  him  to  withdraw  from  the  world,  and  unite  himself 
with  this  secluded  people,  where  he  had  gradually  recovered 
his  cheerfulness,  and  displayed  so  many  tokens  of  a  leading 
gift,  that  he  was  promoted  to  the  eldership  of  the  church, 
which  office  he  had  now  held  for  the  term  of  fourteen  years. 
Those  who  witnessed  him  at  his  graduation  thirty  years  be 
fore,  and  heard  him  pronounce  an  eloquent  dissertation  upon 
ancient  literature,  would  hardly  acknowledge,  in  the  plain  per 
sonage  presiding  at  the  woodland  breakfast,  the  identity  of 
that  elegant  young  collegian.  His  hair,  which,  were  he  our 
hero,  we  should  canonically  term  auburn,  was  changing  its 
somewhat  brilliant  hue,  for  a  color  more  accordant  with  the 
drab  complexion  of  the  coat,  on  which  its  long,  unbarbered 
locks,  clustered  in  heroic  ringlets — his  restless  blue  eye,  long, 
straight  nose,  and  prominent,  veiny  forehead,  were  marked  by 
the  hand  of  time  in  hues  fainter  and  more  delicate,  yet  still 
distinct  enough  to  betray  the  chisel  of  the  great  Sculptor, 
whose  study  includes  the  universe,  and  whose  materials  com 
prehend  creation. 

Nathan  had  one  peculiarity,  which  all  his  professions  of 
simplicity  of  manners  and  plainness  of  speech  had  never  erad 
icated.  He  loved  to  display  his  classical  erudition,  to  be 
chaste,  poetic,  elegant  —  and  if  possible  to  astonish  his  un- 
23 


266  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

taught  auditors,  and  make  them  esteem  him  a  very  demigod. 
Though  initiated  in  the  mysteries  of  the  same  idiomatic  ele 
gance,  Mary's  phraseology  was  remarkably  simple  and  unpre 
tending.  She  had  in  her  youthful  days  been  a  wife  and  a 
mother,  but  the  witchery  of  Ann  Lee  seduced  her  from  the 
home  she  had  graced  with  her  virtues  and  refinement,  and 
turned  the  current  of  her  affections,  which  had  flowed  so 
abundantly  toward  her  husband  and  child,  into  a  very  differ 
ent  channel,  where  they  had  remained  in  frigid  imprison 
ment,  till  in  the  beauty  and  sweet  graces  of  little  Eleonora, 
they  were  at  length  warmed  into  life  and  action.  She  had 
learned  the  story  of  her  husband's  death  a  few  months  after 
her  unnatural  desertion,  and  her  child,  she  believed,  must  have 
fallen  a  victim  to  want  and  suffering,  though  of  the  certainty 
of  its  fate  she  had  never  been  informed.  She  was  a  woman 
of  masculine  firmness  of  mind,  and  her  bold,  projecting  fore 
head,  and  black,  piercing,  deep-set  eye,  betokened  an  unusual 
degree  of  intellectual  strength,  such  as  might  be  expected  in 
one  who  could  so  unrelentingly  break  the  strongest  natural 
ties,  to  take  up  the  cross  of  a  false  Christ. 

Eleonora,  now  the  most  fascinating  creature  in  existence, 
had  been  found  some  twelve  years  before,  snugly  deposited 
upon  the  doorsteps  of  one  of  the  Shaker  domicils  in  Connec 
ticut,  wrapped  in  flannels,  and  dressed  with  exquisite  taste, 
bearing  a  knot  of  blue  ribbon  upon  her  breast,  to  which  was 
attached  a  small  note,  recommending  her,  in  the  most  fervent 
and  heart-thrilling  manner,  to  the  tender  care  of  the  eWer  sis 
ter,  Mary  Hale,  —  representing  her  as  a  poor,  motherless  babe, 
from  whom  a  cruel  fate  was  now  tearing  the  last  idolizing 
parent,  and  directing  that  she  should  be  taught  in  all  the 
Christian  gifts  and  graces,  save  those  that  partake  too  strong 
ly  of  sectarism,  requesting,  moreover,  that  perfect  freedom 
of  action,  speech,  and  thought,  should  be  allowed  her,  so  far 
as  it  did  not  encroach  upon  the  strictest  rules  of  propriety  and 
spiritual  purity ;  and,  as  an  earnest  to  this  appeal,  was  en 
closed  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  which  was  only  a  fore 
taste  of  that  which  should  accrue  to  them,  if  the  child  should 
be  tenderly  reared  to  the  age  of  twelve  years. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  267 

Eleonora  was  now  commencing  her  thirteenth  year,  and  as 
yet  no  parent  had  appeared  to  claim  her;  a  circumstance  that 
Mary  for  one  did  not  regret ;  for  from  the  moment  that  her 
eyes  first  lighted  upon  the  thrilling  smiles  of  the  orphan  babe, 
her  heart  had  been  one  fountain  of  love  for  her.  All  the 
affection  that  was  once  bestowed  upon  her  own  little  cherub 
boy,  was  fastened  upon  her  lovely  protege  ;  and  as  the  arti 
ficial  excitement  of  her  religious  faith  subsided,  and  it  became 
to  her  merely  a  cold,  formal  profession,  so  proportionately  did 
her  attachment  to  Eieonora  increase.  Artless  as  a  young 
dove,  the  orphan  beauty  had  grown  up,  ignorant  and  incuri 
ous  concerning  her  origin  —  the  pet  of  the  elders,  and  the 
favorite  of  all ;  —  how  could  she  be  otherwise  than  the  hap 
piest  of  living  things  ? 

The  superior  talents  of  the  elders  (we  speak  comparatively) 
were  of  great  service  in  the  education  of  Eleonora,  whose 
delicate  penetration  and  ardent  thirst  for  knowledge,  were 
satisfied  only  with  the  complete  solution  of  every  scientific 
mystery  and  moral  enigma  that  puzzled  her  comprehension 
or  her  conscience.  Those  who  are  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  peculiar  sect  among  whom  she  was  reared,  know 
well  the  general  ignorance  that  pervades  their  ranks,  whether 
from  the  design  or  incompetency  of  those  who  have  charge 
of  intellectual  matters,  it  is  not  for  us  to  decide.  Albeit,  the 
term  of  Nathan's  eldership  was  distinguished  for  an  unprece 
dented  diffusion  of  useful  knowledge  throughout  the  society; 
and  which  was  even  suffered  to  exceed  the  limits  of  utility  in 
the  education  of  our  little  heroine,  insomuch  that  she  was 
accomplished  in  all  the  branches  of  ornamental  needlework, 
understood  the  elements  of  botany,  could  relate,  with  artless  ele 
gance,  the  history  of  Shakerism,  from  the  creation  of  the  world 
down  to  the  period  of  her  connection  with  the  society,  and 
had  even  perused  an  entire  volume  of  poetry,  apart  from  the 
hymn-book,  and  a  popular  manuscript  text-book  in  rhyme, 
entitled,  "  A  Concise  Answer  to  the  Inquiry,  '  Who  and  what 
are  the  Shakers?'" 

Such  indulgence,  as  is  usual,  resulted  in  spoiling  her,  at 
least  for  a  practical  Shaker,  and  transformed  her  into  the 


268  PKOSE    SELECTIONS. 

most  enthusiastic,  romantic  creature  possible.  Such  she  was 
at  the  period  of  their  emigration  to  the  western  wild,  where, 
in  the  magnificent  forests  and  rich  alluvials,  the  clear,  broad 
rivers  and  sleeping  lakes,  which  intersected  their  line  of 
travel,  she  found  constant  themes  for  her  imagination  to 
weave  into  fantasies  of  childish  romance,  and  bright,  millen 
nial  visions. 

The  lake  pointed  out  by  her,  just  within  the  borders  of  the 
forest,  and  the  meadow-land  surrounding  it,  were  too  correct 
prototypes  of  the  descriptive  picture  left  by  old  Simon,  to  be 
mistaken  ;  and  as  further  evidence  of  their  identity,  there 
stood  the  very  huts,  also  mentioned  in  the  deed,  which  were 
erected  for  temporary  shelters  to  the  surveyors,  nearly  eight 
years  before,  and  now  served  the  same  kind  purpose  to  our 
emigrants,  where  we  shall  leave  them  for  some  years,  to  make 
clearings  and  found  a  village  after  their  own  peculiar  fashion. 

**=***  ^ 

One  of  those  long  golden  twilights,  that  so  frequently  suc 
ceed  the  decline  of  the  summer  sun,  was  beginning  to  chequer 
with  streaks  and  links  of  yellow  light  the  softly-agitated  sur 
face  of  Lake  Eleonora,  which  still  retained  its  original  quiet 
beauty,  amid  all  the  marvellous  change  that  had  been  wrought 
upon  its  borders.  There,  too,  warbled  the  yellow-bedded  Are- 
thuse,  winding  through  rich  meadows  with  a  quiet  murmur, 
and  becoming  gradually  more  restless,  till  hushed  in  the  breath 
ing  silence  of  the  lake.  Alas  !  melodious  rivulet,  and  sweet, 
transparent  lake  !  The  traveller  asks  vainly  for  their  loca 
tion,  and  the  vacant  stare  and  evasive  answer  prove  that  their 
day  of  romance  is  past,  and  that  henceforth  ruder  names  will 
designate  their  less  poetic,  and  perhaps  more  utile  qualities. 
But  thanks  to  the  presiding  muse  that  cast  the  spell  of  poesy 
over  them  during  the  brief  date  of  our  narrative ;  for  then 
creatures  of  sentiment  and  gifted  intellect  wandered  delighted 
upon  their  sylvan  borders,  and  enacted  scenes  of  holy  beauty 
that  well  deserve  the  faithful  delineations  of  a  chronicler's 
pen. 

A  large,  magnificent  garden,  where  the  rare  exotic  and  del 
icate  wild-flower  mingled  like  the  deities  and  fairies  of  oriea- 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  269 

tal  lauds,  was  fashioned  from  the  rich  soil  of  the  river  banks, 
just  where  it  emptied  its  clear  waters  into  its  little  oval  reser 
voir  ;  and  even  a  long  extent  of  marginal  land  upon  the  lake 
was  plotted  with  fragrant  plants,  that  thrived  upon  its  fatness, 
till  their  tall  blossoms  bowed  over  to  gaze  at  their  own  mir 
rored  beauty,  and  blush  at  its  rich  excess.  A  double  row  of 
ornamental  trees  surrounded  both  divisions  of  the  garden, 
which  were  connected  by  a  narrow  bridge,  built  across  the 
Arethuse,  and  supported  by  a  white  arch  of  open  trellis-work, 
entirely  covered  by  the  luxuriant  foliage  of  a  wild  grape-vine. 
The  young  Shaker  girls  were  scattered  about  the  garden, 
each  to  her  allotted  portion,  busily  engaged  in  training  the 
fragile  stalks  that  were  borne  down  by  their  clustering  fra 
grance,  and  lay  trailing  in  the  dust.  Close  by  the  side  of  a 
beautiful  almond-tree,  stood  a  slender  girl  of  eighteen  years, 
twining  the  long  tendrils  of  a  pink-blossomed  honeysuckle 
around  the  frame-work  of  a  small  arbor ;  and,  ever  and  anon, 
forgetting  her  task,  she  would  glide  through  the  intervening 
paths  and  stand  on  the  shore  of  the  lake  ;  —  there  gazing  a 
moment  in  wild  rapture-  at  the  glory  of  the  scene,  and  then 
glancing  back  again  in  her  light-hearted  mirth,  to  fondle  the 
flowers  that  were  less  fair  than  herself,  and  choose  from  the 
gorgeous  multitude  those  of  the  freshest  hue  and  sweetest 
breath  to  wear  upon  her  heart  —  an  emblem  of  its  meekness 
and  purity. 

Having  at  length  satisfied  herself  with  a  selection  that 
would  do  honor  to  a  painter's  taste,  and  being  wearied  with 
her  exhilarating  exercise,  she  drew  off  her  white  cambric  bon 
net,  and  hanging  it  upon  a  bough  of  the  almond-tree,  threw 
herself  upon  the  seat  of  the  arbor,  and  then  performed  sev 
eral  little  trivial  deeds,  quite  inconsistent  with  the  rules  of 
Shaker  decorum.  The  first  was  the  rolling  up  of  her  white 
sleeves  above  her  elbows,  for  which  indiscretion  her  con 
science  pleaded  two  good  apologies  —  the  excessive  heat,  and 
the  fear  of  adding  to  the  several  small  stains  which  she  per 
ceived,  to  her  mortification,  already  disfigured  their  cleanness. 
Afterward,  as  her  fever  increased,  she  untied  the  strings  of 
her  close  muslin  cap,  and  unconsciously  suffered  one  long 
23* 


270  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

sunny  tress  to  escape  from  its  "  durance  vile,"  and  dance 
a  free  gambol  with  the  sportive  zephyr ;  and  then,  braiding 
a  knot  of  delicate  harebells  and  snowy  koneysuckles  with  a 
small  blush -rose,  loosened  her  'kerchief  at  the  throat,  and 
flinging  it  apart  upon  her  shoulders,  placed  the  bouquet  in 
the  centre  of  the  open  angle.  Each  of  these  little  perform 
ances  were  encroachments  upon  the  prudish  propriety  of  the 
established  customs  —  but  as  we  have  said  in  our  notice  of 
her  childhood,  indulgence  had  spoiled  Eleonora  for  a  practical 
Shaker  —  and  although  we  perfectly  exonerate  her  from  the 
slightest  charge  of  vanity,  if  feminine  loveliness  be  ever  an 
excuse  for  this  folly,  our  heroine  surely  might  have  been  par 
doned  for  indulging  in  it. 

Her  fair,  rounded  arms,  bared  to  the  mellow  twilight,  were 
such  as  a  sculptor  would  have  sought,  were  he  chiselling  a 
Psyche  —  her  little  arched  throat,  so  rarely  displayed,  was 
white  —  0,  you  may  be  sure,  it  was  very  white  !  —  and  that 
auburn  curl  was  a  thing,  we  may  venture  to  assert,  never  be 
fore  seen  stealing  from  the  coif  of  a  Shaker  damsel,  as  their 
customs  require  a  shorn  head  ;  —  but  Eleonora 's  hair  was  so 
very  beautiful,  that  her  patroness,  Mary,  would  never  consent 
that  it  should  be  submitted  to  the  torturing  shears,  but  bound 
it  carefully  beneath  the  folds  of  her  cap,  from  whence  acci 
dent  had  now  suffered  it  to  partially  emerge  —  and  then  her 
face  —  we  would  describe  it  if  we  could,  but  our  readers  may 
each  cast  the  features  in  their  own  mould  of  perfect  loveli 
ness,  and  stamp  them  with  the  holiest  expression  of  the  spirit 
—  they  cannot  surpass  the  reality. 

A  gentle  rustling  among  the  leaves  of  a  beautiful  young 
tree,  called  her  attention  from  her  flowers,  and  there,  nestling 
with  a  mischievous  grace  amid  the  corymbed  blossoms,  she 
espied  a  young  dove  that  she  had  reared  from  its  parentless 
infancy,  till  now  it  followed  her  footsteps  like  her  shadow. 
She  called  to  it  softly,  and  with  a  glad  flutter  of  its  wings,  it 
left  the  tree,  and  perched  upon  her  little  palm,  whilst  with 
her  other  hand,  which  looked  as  though  it  were  made  only  to 
dress  a  flower,  or  caress  a  bird,  she  playfully  pulled  the  soft 
blue  fringe  of  its  folded  wings,  and  smoothed  its  snowy  back. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  271 

Suddenly,  as  though  startled,  it  darted  up  its  head,  and  flew 
bick  to  the  tree ;  its  mistress  raised  her  eyes,  and  met  the 
admiring  gaze  of  a  stranger,  who  had  approached  the  arbor 
unperceived,  and  now  stood  immediately  before  her.  She 
uttered  a  slight  exclamation,  and  remembering  her  discom 
posed  attire,  snatched  the  nosegay  from  her  bosom,  and 
dropped  it  at  her  feet ;  then  drawing  the  'kerchief  together 
at  the  throat,  and  feeling  the  burning  crimson  mantling  to 
her  cheek  and  brow,  fled  like  a  frightened  hare  to  the  covert 
of  the  trees.  She  had  scarcely  time  to  compose  her  dress, 
still  less  her  feelings,  when  the  voice  of  Nathan  summoned 
her  to  the  arbor  again.  The  stranger  was  with  him. 

"  Here,  Eleonora  Fay,  this  gentleman,  Mr.  Davenport  —  a 
favorite  of  Apollo  and  the  Muses  —  desires  to  be  conducted  to 
that  part  of  the  garden  most  favorable  for  a  view  of  the  lake. 
Now  you  have  a  nice  taste  for  such  things,  and  a  better 
knowledge  of  the  different  points  of  prospect  than  I  have,  so 
tie  on  your  bonnet,  and  lead  us  to  the  loveliest  spot,  —  for 
the  starlight  will  soon  fall  upon  it." 

"  Yea,  and  would  not  starlight,  early  starlight,  just  when  it 
steals  upon  declining  day,  be  the  very  light  of  all  others,  the 
fittest  for  such  a  scene  ?"  she  inquired,  addressing  the  stran 
ger-artist,  and  raising  her  eyes  towards  him  rather  composed 
ly,  till  they  fell,  unfortunately,  upon  the  boquet  resting  on  his 
bosom  —  the  very  one  she  had  thrown  away ;  and  then  her 
composure  was  again  put  to  flight.  She  hastened  on,  with 
out  waiting  for  a  reply,  and  did  not  again  pause  till  they  had 
arrived  at  the  upper  part  of  the  garden,  where  a  summer- 
house  was  erected  upon  the  summit  of  a  slope.  Many  frail 
and  beautiful  exotics  were  arranged  in  pots  around  the  border 
of  the  mossy  floor,  and  a  woodbine  covered  the  white  exterior. 

"  Here,"  said  Eleonora  to  Nathan,  "  here  is  the  spot  which 
Mary  and  I  chose  for  the  site  of  the  summer-house,  and  I 
cannot  but  think  Mr.  Davenport  will  be  pleased  with  this 
view  of  the  lake." 

"  Ah,  yes  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  one  might  almost  believe  it 
the  very  land  of  the  millennium,  such  proud  old  forests,  dark 
ling  in  shadows  and  glowing  in  light,  as  changeable  as  the 


272  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

zephyr  that  sweeps  through  their  massy  foliage  —  the  tran 
quil  lake,  tranquil  but  one  moment,  ere  the  whole  breath  of 
the  woodland  is  flung  down  upon  its  sensitive  surface  —  the 
garden  with  its  rare  young  trees  and  beds  of  flowers,  not  to 
speak  of  the  animate  charms^,  that  give  such  sweet  expression 
to  the  scene"  —  and  here  a  glance,  transient  as  a  meteor,  and 
almost  as  bright,  was  directed  towards  Eleonora.  "  Oh,  now 
for  the  canvass  and  the  pencil !  this  stool  shall  be  my  throne, 
and  here  will  I  create  a  mimic  world,  as  fair  as  the  Eden  of 
the  east." 

"But  beware,"  said  Nathan,  solemnly,  "beware  that  you 
place  no  serpent  in  it." 

A  slight  color  flushed  the  painter's  cheek.  "  Ah,  certainly, 
it  would  be  an  incongruous  circumstance  —  the  presence  of 
the  serpent  within  the  holy  precincts  of  a  kingdom  whose  peo 
ple  are  said  to  be  his  direct  foes — no,  no,  —  it  shall  be  the 
Holy  Spirit  in  the  form  of  a  dove,  like  the  one  now  descend 
ing  upon  Eleonora's  hand.  How  apt  a  representation  !" 

"  Yea,"  responded  the  elder,  clasping  his  hands,  "  yea, 
yea  ! "  Davenport  drew  a  paper  from  his  portfolio,  and  while 
he  was  sketching  hastily  from  the  scene  before  him,  Eleonora 
had  opportunity  for  the  first  time  to  mark  his  countenance. 
He  was  not  very  young,  "full  thirty,"  at  least,  and  without 
minutely  describing  his  appearance,  we  assure  our  readers 
that  he  was  just  such  a  looking  person  as  everybody  at  first- 
sight  loves,  for  the  very  good  reason,  that  he  looked  as  though 
he,  at  first-sight,  loved  everybody.  Eleonora  now  joined  the 
sisters  who  were  returning  from  their  evening  toil,  as  the 
tinkling  tea-bell  promised  a  grateful  refreshment,  and  when, 
two  by  two,  the  white-clad  virgins  passed  the  little  retreat  of 
the  artist,  his  eye  followed  their  steps  with  an  expression  of 
fervent  admiration.  He  declined  the  elder's  invitation  to  par 
take  of  the  evening  meal,  and  bidding  him  farewell,  passed 
through  the  gate  and  disappeared. 

When  Eleonora  had  retired  to  her  little  bed,  which  occu 
pied  a  pleasant  corner  of  the  dormitory,  her  mind  recurred  to 
the  scenes  of  the  day.  And  then  stole  forth  the  deeply  peni 
tent  prayer  for  pardoning  grace  to  quench  the  rising  sin,  that 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  273 

she  vainly  strove  to  repress.  She  invoked  the  Holy  Spirit  to 
operate  upon  her  heart,  for  a  forbidden  affection  had  entered 
its  inmost  sanctuary  —  a  love  stronger  than  that  of  a  sister  — 
for  Mary,  nor  Nathan,  nor  one  dear  member  of  the  fraternity 
had  ever  held  such  sway  over  her  thoughts,  as  the  stranger 
whom  a  late  hour  had  first  presented  to  her.  She  dwelt  upon 
his  first  look  of  admiration  at  their  encounter  in  the  arbor  — 
upon  the  boquet  in  his  bosom  —  the  glance  in  the  summer- 
house  —  upon  every  word  he  had  uttered,  every  action  he  had 
performed.  Was  it  not  wrong  —  vitally  sinful  ?  Her  creed 
answered  yea  —  and  ere  she  could  be  absolved,  she  must  con 
fess  her  bondage,  and  vow  a  new  allegiance  to  the  cross. 
"  Yea,"  she  mentally  ejaculated,  "  to-morrow  I  will  confess  all 
to  Mary,  and  then  I  shall  know  peace  again.  O  my  God  ! 
I  have  told  thee  my  weakness,  but  thou  art  so  full  of  mercy 
that  thou  dost  not  rebuke  me.  It  seems  that  now  my  spirit 
hears  thy  kind,  soft  voice  reply,  — '  It  is  no  sin  ! '  But  it  is 
an  illusion,  Father;  an  illusion  of  the  evil  one  —  it  must  be 
sin,  else  why  is  it  forbidden  ?  "  Poor  Eleonora  !  she  knew 
not  the  deceit  that  had  been  practised  upon  her  innocent 
mind  ;  she  knew  not  that  she  had  been  instructed  in  a  spuri 
ous  gospel,  wrought  out  from  the  vain  traditions  of  men. 

They  had  taught  her  that  all  natural  affection  is  vile,  even 
the  holiest  ties  of  parental  and  conjugal  love ;  that  the  ties  of 
consanguinity  should  be  broken  as  chains  of  carnal  bondage, 
and  a  zealous  warfare  carried  on  against  the  laws  of  nature, 
ere  the  spirit  could  be  entitled  to  wear  the  millennial  crown. 
But  the  law  of  love  is  imperative  —  not  so  easily  subdued  as 
its  rebel  subjects  could  desire.  Thanks  be  to  God!  it  is 
written  upon  their  hearts,  and  till  they  are  wasted  to  the 
inmost  core,  the  burning  sentence  will  remain  —  the  irrevoca 
ble  edict  of  the  King  of  Love  ! 

Even  sleep,  the  spirit's  "  sweet  restorer,"  did  not  obliterate 
the  image  of  a  rich  black  eye  and  thrilling  smile  from  Elono- 
ra's  mind,  and  when  the  Sabbath  dawn  awoke  her  to  their 
more  vivid  remembrance,  her  first  lisping  from  the  footstool  of 
grace  was,  "  Father  in  heaven !  give  me  strength  to  confess 
all ! "  Soon  as  the  duties  and  religious  exercises  of  the  morn- 


274  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

ing  were  through,  and  all  were  apparelled  for  their  public 
"labors"  at  the  church,  she  requested  a  momentary  audience 
in  private,  with  the  beloved  eldress ;  and  withdrawing  to  a 
small  apartment,  used  as  a  sort  of  oratory,  or  confessional,  she 
kneeled  at  Mary's  feet,  and  related,  in  the  most  artless  and 
affecting  manner,  her  transgression  of  the  laws  of  God.  Her 
confessor  was  moved  to  tears. 

"  Dear  sister,"  she  replied,  "  ours  is  an  ascetic  life ;  con 
stant  mortifications  and  crucifixions  are  to  be  endured,  natural 
affections  denied,  and  earthly  hopes  repressed.  Eleonora, 
angel  of  light!  to  you  alone,  beside  my  God,  I  make  this 
humiliating  confession,  —  saint-like  as  is  my  outward  appear 
ance,  insomuch  that  they  have  styled  me  the  daughter  of  the 
Lady-elect;  free  as  I  seem  from  the  vassalage  of  earth  and 
earthly  passions,  never,  in  the  height  of  my  giddy  career 
within  her  carnal  courts,  was  I  so  entirely  within  her  bonds 
as  now.  Eleonora,  young  sister  of  my  heart,  —  no  tie  in 
earth  or  heaven  retains  me  here  but  you !  No  tenet  of  mv 
faith  is  strong  enough,  no  hope  of  heaven,  born  of  sacrificial 
rites  and  holy  penances,  is  dear  enough,  to  hold  me  longer  to 
monastic  life.  And  why,  your  eyes  inquire,  why  this  sudden 
passion  for  the  world  ?  Once,  sweet  child,  it  would  have 
been  a  fruitless  task  to  have  explained  my  motive,  with  a 
hope  to  make  you  comprehend  it ;  but  now,  now  that  you 
love,  —  start  not,  for  your  artless  confession  has  revealed 
the  truth,  —  now  that  you  love,  it  will  not  be  impossible  for 
you  to  know  that  a  mother  can  love  as  deeply.  I  need  not 
caution  you  to  preserve  my  secret  —  you  never  betray  another's 
revelations  —  but  believe  the  truth  I  tell  you  —  Charles  Da 
venport  is  my  son !  " 

"  Spirit  of  truth  ! "  exclaimed  the  pale  penitent,  starting  to 
her  feet,  and  clasping  the  trembling  hand  of  her  confessor, 
"  your  son  ?  you  told  me  that  your  son  was  dead  —  that  he 
slept  in  the  grave  with  his  father  !  " 

"  I  thought  it  was  so ;  but  an  incident  that  occurred  yester 
day,  has  unveiled  the  truth,  that  my  own  dear  Charles  is 
living  —  and  I  have  gazed  upon  his  face,  and  heard  his  voice 
of  music.  Oh,  how  sweet  that  voice!  I  hear  it  now;  so 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  275 

like  his  father's  when  he  breathed  his  last  farewell  and  blessed 
rae,  all  the  while  that  his  heart  was  breaking  with. grief  at 
my  cruel  desertion." 

"  And  how  did  you  ascertain  the  relation  ?  "  inquired  Eleo- 
nora,  all  engrossed  by  the  strange  discovery. 

"  Sit  down  with  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  all.  Yesterday, 
just  about  sunset,  elder  Nathan  entered  the  office,  where  I 
was  sitting  with  several  sisters,  accompanied  by  a  gentleman 
bearing  in  his  hand  a  large  portfolio.  At  the  first  glance,  I 
started  as  though  a  spectre  had  crossed  my  path ;  but  Nathan 
introduced  him  as  Mr.  Davenport,  and  I  felt  relieved.  It  was 
only  momentarily,  however,  for  he  spoke,  and  I  have  told  you 
the  effect  of  his  voice.  I  can  never  forget  the  sensations  of 
that  moment.  He  said  that  the  exceeding  beauty  of  our  lake 
had  allured  him  to  the  village,  and  as  he  had  an  earnest 
desire  to  take  a  sketch  of  it,  he  had  spoken  to  the  elder  for  a 
temporary  location  for  his  easel  upon  a  favorable  point  of  our 
land ;  and  as  a  slight  return  for  the  kind  permission  granted, 
he  was  about  to  allow  us  a  peep  at  the  contents  of  his  port 
folio.  He  opened  it  as  he  spoke,  and  we  clustered  about 
him ;  the  sisters  to  admire  his  sketches,  myself  to  stand  by 
his  side  and  scrutinize  his  magic  countenance.  It  was  like 
my  own ;  I  could  perceive  the  resemblance,  but  it  was  more 
like  my  husband's.  He  noticed  my  earnest  gaze,  and  cast  an 
inquiring  glance,  that  seemed  to  say,  'Who  are  you?'  then 
turned  away  unsatisfied,  and  shuffled  over  the  beautiful  speci 
mens  of  his  art.  My  eye  fell  unconsciously  upon  them,  and 
was  chained  with  serpentine  fascination  to  a  half-concealed 
miniature  ;  I  snatched  it  from  among  the  sheets,  and  read  the 
name  written  beneath  it,  —  'Likeness  of  Charles  Hale,  copied 
by  his  son.'  I  saw  no  more ;  my  head  whirled ;  darkness 
concealed  the  name,  and  I  fainted.  Such  is  the  tale  of  my 
strange  discovery.  When  I  recovered,  the  stranger,  my  son, 
had  departed.  No  one  knew  the  cause  of  my  indisposition, 
no  one  suspected  it.  I  retired  to  my  chamber,  and  gazed 
from  the  window  that  overlooks  the  garden,  to  catch  another 
glimpse  of  the  being  who  had  so  magically  unsealed  the  foun 
tain  of  maternal  love.  My  eyes  followed  every  step  till  he 


276  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

was  lost  among  the  trees,  and  then  waited,  oh  how  anxiously, 
to  see  him  emerge.  The  last  sight  was  but  momentary  — 
he  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  speedily  away.  To-day, 
weak  and  perturbed  as  I  am,  I  have  prepared  myself  for 
church,  in  hope  to  see  him  there.  I  feel  that  my  very  life  is 
hound  up  in  him  ;  he  whom  I  so  unnaturally  deserted  in  the 
weakness  of  infancy  —  a  maniac  I  must  have  been  to  have 
done  it  —  has  now  appeared  before  me  in  the  pride  and  beauty 
of  manhood,  to  make  me  feel  to  the  heart's  core,  the  depravity 
of  which  I  have  been  guilty.  I  threw  away  my  treasure,  but 
it  was  not  lost ;  and  now  in  its  rich  maturity ;  it  gleams 
across  my  pathway,  to  leave  it  again  darker  than  the  walks 
of  death.  Alas,  for  the  witchcraft  of  Ann  Lee  ! " 

"  Witchcraft !  Oh,  Mary,  do  not  blaspheme  !  Was  she 
not  the  Messiah  —  the  holy  mother  of  believers  —  the  second 
incarnation  of  God's  only  begotten  ?  Mary,  dear  Mary,  do  not 
deny  your  Saviour  !  " 

"  Sweet,  infatuated  child !  Must  I  answer  to  Heaven  for 
your  delusion  also  ?  Let  me  go  back  to  the  days  of  my  first 
deviation  from  truth,  and  give  you  a  full  confession  of  all  my 
errors.  You  will  respect  me  less,  but  my  conscience  will  feel 
lightened  of  its  burden,  and  you  will  pity,  if  you  cannot  par 
don  me.  Thirty  years  ago  I  was  a  happy  wife  and  mother 
—  the  mistress  of  a  little  paradise  upon  the  banks  of  the  Hou- 
satonic,  surrounded  by  cultivated  society,  and  blest  as  mortal 
can  be.  At  that  time,  the  fame  of  Ann  Lee  was  spreading 
like  wildfire  through  New  England,  and  marvellous  tales  were 
told  of  the  wonders  she  performed,  the  miracles  she  wrought, 
and  the  multitude  of  disciples  that  left  all  to  follow  her.  She 
entered  the  village  where  I  lived,  and  my  ardent  temperament 
was  excited  to  the  highest  degree  by  her  singular  appearance. 
She  would  often  appear  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  no  one 
knew  how;  and  spinning  swifter  than  a  top,  would  whirl 
round  and  round  till  out  of  sight,  in  a  manner  that  exceeds 
description.  Sometimes  spasms  and  fits  of  various  kinds 
would  assail  her,  which  she  pretended  were  operations  of  the 
Spirit;  in  short,  all  the  wild  exorcisms  and  rantings  of  a 
witch  and  a  fanatic,  were  resorted  to,  as  successful  machinery 


PROSE   SELECTIONS.  277 

in  her  unhallowed  operations.  Husbands  forsook  their  wives, 
and  parents  their  children ;  families  were  broken  up,  and 
domestic  harmony  destroyed  in  more  than  one  hamlet,  by  the 
power  of  her  mad  incantations.  But  her  eloquence,  —  for  she 
was  eloquent  in  a  peculiar  way,  —  was  what  completed  my 
infatuation.  Religious  lunacy,  or  something  equally  un 
natural,  usurped  the  throne  of  reason  and  common  sense,  and 
I  became  one  of  the  most  raving  of  zealots.  But  after  I  joined 
the  society  at  Union  Village,  my  excitement  gradually  died 
away,  and  the  dull,  formal  life  which  succeeded,  brought  me 
to  a  sense  of  my  folly.  The  death  of  my  husband  was  a 
powerful  awakener,  but  I  was  too  proud  to  betray  any  repent 
ance  and  from  a  fiery  enthusiast,  I  changed  to  a  cold,  unfeel 
ing  stoic.  This  reckless  indifference  to  everything  around 
me,  was  looked  upon  by  my  sectarian  friends  as  the  evidence 
of  great  internal  piety,  and  I  was  gradually  promoted  till  I 
obtained  the  eldership  of  the  church.  About  this  time, 
Nathan  joined  us ;  and  his  fine  talents,  and  somewhat  aris 
tocratic  nobleness  of  soul,  won  my  respect  and  friendship.  I 
used  all  my  influence,  which  has  never  been  slight,  to  effect 
his  promotion,  and  in  two  years  I  greeted  him  as  brother- 
elder.  He  never  was  at  heart  a  believer,  and  I  knew  it ;  but 
I  was  as  little  of  one  as  himself,  and  no  slight  diplomatist 
withal.  I  reckoned  much  upon  his  cooperation  in  all  matters 
of  sacerdotal  legislation,  and  was  not  disappointed ;  for  the 
powers  of  his  mind  were  well  adapted  to  the  administration 
of  laws,  and  those,  too,  of  not  the  most  lenient  nature.  We 
were  both  of  us  somewhat  despotic,  but  neither  of  us  what 
you  would  call  tyrants.  Yet  I  was  never  happy  till  since  you 
were  left  with  us ;  till  that  time,  my  affections  lay  dormant, 
and  woe  to  the  woman  who  has  nothing  to  love  !  You  never 
saw  the  note  that  was  written  by  your  father,  nor  have  you 
been  informed  of  its  contents.  I  intended  to  have  shown  it  to 
you  when  your  age  became  ripe  enough  to  allow  you  to  un 
derstand  its  import ;  but  as  every  added  year  flung  new  and 
sweeter  beauties  upon  your  head,  that  drew  still  stronger  the 
cord  of  love  around  my  heart.  I  grew  selfish,  and  dreaded  to 
acquaint  you  with  its  contents,  lest  its  promise  might  fill  your 
24 


278  PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

heart  with  hopes  and  affections  toward  another  being  than 
myself.  But  you  shall  see  it  now." 

She  drew  from  her  bosom  a  small  morocco  case  in  the  form 
of  the  lady's  purse  used  in  olden  time,  and  took  from  it  a  slip 
of  paper  which  she  handed  to  Eleonora.  "  I  have  kept  it  in 
this  little  depository  of  cherished  relics,  and  worn  it  ever  on 
my  heart.  Forgive  me  for  concealing  it  from  you."  Eleo 
nora  perused  it  eagerly.  "  To  the  age  of  twelve  years  ! "  she 
exclaimed.  "  Ah,  that  era  has  long  since  past,  and  no  parent 
has  claimed  me."  A  sigh,  deeply  sad,  stole  from  her  heart. 
"  It  is  well  —  well  that  the  note  was  kept  from  me,  for  I  could 
not  have  borne  the  disappointment.  In  my  ignorance  I  was 
happy ;  I  have  ever  been  happy  till  now,  and  when  I  seek  in 
you  consolation,  I  find  that  you  have  none  to  give.  My 
father,  O  my  father  !  why  was  not  thy  promise  ratified  ?  Is 
thy  child  forgotten ;  thy  motherless  one  unloved  ?  or  has 
death  taken  thee  forever  from  her  ? "  The  large  tears  rolled 
down  her  cheeks ;  she  rested  her  head  on  the  bosom  of  her 
affectionate  friend,  and  unburdened  all  her  sorrow  there. 

"  Dear  child,"  said  the  compassionate  sister,  "  there  is  yet 
hope  for  you,  now  that  you  can  speak  thus ;  there  is  a  foun 
tain  of  natural  affection  in  your  heart,  that  all  the  false  creeds 
in  the  world  cannot  evaporate.  I  feared  the  lessons  which  I 
had  so  pertinaciously  taught  you,  had  sunk  too  deep  to  be 
eradicated;  for  despite  my  own  scepticism,  and  the  injunction 
in  the  note  to  suffer  your  mind  to  expand  in  the  full  light  of 
Christianity,  unshackled  by  creeds  and  sectarism,  my  selfish 
love  had  fears  that  your  enthusiastic  mind  might  despise  the 
narrow  spirit  of  our  faith,  arid  prompt  you  to  forsake  us  for  the 
more  liberal  and  cultivated  society  of  the  world.  But  I  tell 
you  seriously,  with  an  honest  conviction  of  the  truth  of  what 
I  utter,  that  the  whole  articles  of  our  creed  are  false,  —  false 
as  the  doctrines  of  Eve's  seducer.  Nay,  even  more,  the  Bible 
—  our  Bible  —  in  which  we  profess  to  find  foundation  for  our 
foolish  tenets,  even  that  is  chiefly  false  —  a  mere  adulterated 
transcript  of  the  Holy  Testament  of  God.  But  my  deception 
ends  not  here.  At  the  time  of  our  departure  from  Connecti 
cut,  so  fearful  were  Nathan  and  I,  that  your  father  might 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  279 

return  and  make  inquiries  for  you,  that  we  bribed  the  society, 
by  a  relinquishment  of  all  the  money  that  might  be  offered  as 
a  recompense  for  the  care  taken  of  you ;  to  feign  a  story  of 
your  recent  death,  and  of  my  apostasy  from  the  faith  and 
return  to  the  society  of  the  world.  This  was  the  wickedest 
of  all  my  deceits ;  but,  oh !  the  prospect  of  loneliness  and 
heartsickness  that  would  be  the  result  of  your  loss  was  not 
to  be  thought  of;  I  could  not  believe  that  the  story  of  your 
death  could  affect  a  parent  who  had  never  seen  you  from  your 
earliest  infancy,  with  the  same  depth  of  sorrow  that  your  loss 
would  one  who  had  lived  in  the  light  of  your  smiles  from  their 
dawn  to  their  midday.  Perhaps  he  has  never  sought  you, 
but  if  he  is  living,  it  is  more  probable  that  he  has.  May  we 
not  hope  yet  to  find  him  ?  " 

"  And  if  we  do  ?  "  inquired  Eleonora  emphatically,  grasping 
Mary's  arm,  and  gazing  earnestly  into  her  face. 

"  O,  ask  me  not  what !  I  cannot  tell  you  all  my  wishes  and 
premeditations." 

"  But  I  can  guess  some  of  them  ! "  said  Eleonora,  the  light 
of  hope  again  beaming  from  her  eyes.  They  had  no  time, 
however,  to  hatch  conspiracies  or  make  longer  confessions 
then,  for  the  clock  struck  eleven,  and  that  was  the  signal  to 
form  the  procession  to  church. 

*n*  "Tp  "7?  "iP  *  *R-  "Tt*  *  TV 

Evening  is  the  season  for  romance,  for  penitence  and 
prayer ;  it  is  the  hour  of  poetry  and  spiritual  existence,  when 
the  soul's  high  gifts  utter  themselves  in  melody;  it  is  the 
point  at  which  we  would  have  the  hour-glass  pause,  and  time 
fold  up  his  wings.  So  thought  Eleonora,  as  she  sat  in  her 
little  arbor  at  the  close  of  the  day  following  her  long  conver 
sation  with  Mary ;  she  was  alone  in  the  garden,  all  the  young 
sisters  being  absent  with  elder  Nathan  upon  an  excursion 
for  gathering  wild  berries,  agreeably  to  a  proposition  of  the 
eldress,  who,  for  reasons  best  known  to  herself,  had  thus  con 
trived  to  have  the  garden  vacated.  Eleonora's  employments 
had  been  such  as  to  prevent  her  earlier  attendance  upon  her 
flowers,  and  she  had  entered  the  garden  now  at  the  bidding 
of  the  eldress,  whose  coming  she  was  directed  to  await  there. 


280  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

The  western  clouds  were  gathered  in  gorgeous  drapery  above 
the  couch  of  the  monarch  of  day  —  royal  purple  fringed  with 
gold,  and  light  crimson  banners  wreathed  in  fantastic  shapes, 
as  though 

"  Angels,  soaring  through  the  air, 
Had  left  their  mantles  floating  there ;" 

and  just  in  the  scallop  of  a  soft  white  cloud,  glittered  the  nar 
row  bow  of  the  new-born  moon.  The  lake  was  motionless  as 
the  sky  above  it,  save  now  and  then  disturbed  by  the  ripple 
of  an  oar  in  the  hands  of  a  Shaker  lad,  who  was  throwing  his 
line  along  the  centre  of  the  gleaming  waves  for  speckled  trout 
and  brindled  pike,  and  sometimes  pausing  by  a  bed  of  water- 
lilies,  to  enjoy  their  beauty  and  fragrance,  without  presuming 
to  pluck  one  from  the  stem,  or  even  disturb  it  with  his  oar. 
Eleonora  had  paused  a  few  moments  to  enjoy  the  scene,  and 
then  passed  on  to  the  arbor.  She  had  been  reclining  there 
but  a  few  moments,  when,  as  usual,  her  little  dove  lighted 
upon  her  hand,  but  not  calmly  as  he  was  wont;  he  was  peck 
ing  angrily  at  a  paper  which  was  tied  to  his  throat.  With  a 
trembling  hand  his  mistress  untied  the  small  blue  bow  that 
fastened  it,  and  thus  released,  the  bird  darted  gayly  away. 
She  opened  the  paper,  and  started  to  see  a  beautiful  copy  of 
the  boquet  the  artist  had  worn  away  upon  his  bosom,  and 
beneath  it  was  a  little  sonnet,  inscribed  to  Eleonora.  We 
have  the  very  original  before  us,  but  we  are  aware  that  it 
would  be  dishonorable  in  us  to  make 'public  what  was  intended 
for  one  eye  only,  though  it  must  have  been  empowered  with 
the  true  spell  of  poesy,  if  we  may  judge  from  its  effects  upon 
the  countenance  of  her  to  whom  it  was  addressed.  She  had 
only  time  to  peruse  it  hastily  and  hide  it  in  her  bosom,  ere 
the  eldress  approached  the  arbor. 

"  Eleonora,  you  are  here ;  are  you  sure  there  is  no  one  else 
in  the  garden  ?  " 

"  No  one,  I  am  confident,"  she  replied.  "  Follow  me,  has 
tily,  then,  and  stand  near  the  summer-house  to  see  that  no 
one  intrudes  while  I  am  there."  She  obeyed  reluctantly. 
How  could  she  meet  the  author  of  that  sonnet  with  anything 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  281 

like  composure  ?  Her  countenance  was  such  a  gossip  of  her 
most  secret  feelings,  that  to  look  at  him  would  be  to  betray 
them  all.  She  therefore  begged  to  remain  within  the  bridge 
near  the  summer-house,  till  her  friend's  return ;  and  having 
granted  permission,  Mary  disappeared. 

Eleonora  waited  half  an  hour  in  the  utmost  agitation  for 
her  reappearance ;  at  times  pacing  the  floor  of  the  bridge 
with  folded  arms,  and  anon  venturing  a  few  yards  up  the  path 
toward  the  little  summer-cove,  dreading,  and  yet  impatient 
for  her  return.  At  length,  as  she  stood  within  the  bridge, 
leaning  against  the  trellis  and  half  hidden  by  the  broad-leafed 
foliage  of  the  grape-vine,  she  heard  voices  approaching  which 
she  recognized  as  those  of  the  eldress  and  her  son.  What  an 
awkward  situation !  Should  she  remain  where  she  was,  or 
flee  back  to  her  bower  ?  was  the  momentary  disquisition  of 
her  mind.  She  had  not  time  to  decide,  ere  the  voice  of  Mary 
called  her  to  meet  them.  "  Dear  Eleonora,  hither  a  moment 
—  here  is  my  son,  and  he  brings  you  news  of  your  father." 

"  Of  my  father ! "  she  exclaimed,  forgetting  all  fears,  all 
reserve,  in  the  absorbing  interest  of  that  name,  and  running 
to  meet  him  with  an  open  hand,  which  she  placed  in  his  with 
the  most  winning  confidence,  and  looked  up  to  him  with  such 
intense  anxiety  and  pleading  eloquence  that  his  heart  was 
touched  to  the  core ;  begging  that  he  would  tell  her  much  — 
everything  of  her  father.  "  Is  he  living  ?  Does  he  seek  his 
Eleonora?"  she  added,  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  he  lives,  but  seeks  not  his  daughter  save  in  heaven, 
where  he  believes  her  spirit  long  since  fled." 

"  Dear  father !  where  is  he  ?  can  I  see  him  soon  ?  " 

"  He  is  now  many  miles  distant ;  but  he  will  soon  be  with 
you,  for  I  have  written  him  that  his  child  is  found." 

"  Heaven  bless  you  for  it ! "  replied  the  lovely  girl,  her 
countenance  betraying  a  happiness  of  the  heart,  too  deep  for 
words  to  express.  "  But  tell  me,  I  entreat  you  —  I  am  so 
anxious  to  know  —  who  he  is,  and  why  he  left  me  so  many, 
many  years." 

"  Come,  sit  with  me  then,  for  it  is  a  long  tale,"  he  replied, 
leading  her  into  one  of  those  shady  arbors  that  were  erected 
24* 


282  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

in  every  part  of  the  garden.  "  But  you  must  make  it  a  brief 
one."  said  his  mother,  "  for  do  you  not  see  that  it  is  nearly 
dark  ?  and,  Eleonora,  my  dear,  you  must  remain  without  me, 
else  I  shall  be  missed  at  the  tea-table,  and  that  would  excite 
suspicion.  But  remember  and  be  brief." 

"  Indeed,  I  cannot  remain  without  you,"  said  Eleonora,  ris 
ing,  and  taking  her  friend's  arm,  as  she  approached  her  son  to 
bestow  a  parting  kiss. 

"  Then  you  have  forgotten  your  anxiety  about  your  father," 
said  Mary,  a  little  sorrowfully.  The  poor  girl  hesitated ; 
Davenport  took  her  hand,  and  drew  her  gently  to  her  seat ; 
"  Sweet  Eleonora,"  he  said,  tenderly,  "  you  do  not  fear  to  be 
left  with  your  brother  ?  I  am  the  son  of  your  father's  adop 
tion,  the  inheritor  of  his  name,  and  will  not  you  be  my  sister  ?  " 

"Yea,"  she  whispered,  and  never  did  the  tone  of  a  harp 
sound  so  sweetly  in  his  ear  as  the  soft  cadence  of  that  simple 
affirmative.  "  Yea,  I  will  be  anything  to  one  my  father 
loves." 

"  Thank  you  !  sweet  sister ;  and  now  listen  to  a  slight  his 
tory  of  that  dear  parent.  William  Davenport  —  that  is  his 
name  — was  the  only  son  of  a  wealthy  English  baronet,  and 
betrothed  at  the  age  of  eighteen  to  Lady  Emily  Huntingdon, 
the  only  child  of  a  widowed  Countess,  and  a  young  lady  of 
rare  excellence.  This  betrothment  was  the  work  of  the 
parents,  and  not  objected  to  by  themselves.  Your  father  had 
a  sincere  friendship  for  Lady  Emily,  and  her  affection  for 
him  was  even  of  a  tenderer  nature.  The  two  years  that  were 
to  elapse  before  the  celebration  of  their  nuptials,  he  proposed 
to  spend  in  travel.  To  this  his  father  did  not  object,  and  he, 
accordingly,  came  over  to  this  continent.  Shortly  after  his 
arrival  he  saw,  and  loved  a  penniless  orphan  —  a  young  village 
school-mistress  —  but  who  was,  nevertheless,  a  being  of  sur 
passing  beauty  and  angel-gifts  of  mind  and  heart.  He  forgot 
his  affianced  bride,  and  breathed  new  vows  into  the  ear  of  the 
artless  Eleonora." 

"  My  mother ! "  exclaimed  his  all-captivated  auditor.  "  Yes, 
your  mother.  Her  name  was  Eleonora  Fay,  and  judging  from 
the  picture  of  her  countenance  which  he  once  showed  me  — 


PROBE    SELECTIONS, 

you  are  her  very  image.  He  married  her  and  was  happy  — 
but  in  one  year  she  died,  leaving  him  a  precious  legacy  —  you 
can  guess  what  it  was.  A  few  days  after  this  event,  which 
nearly  crushed  the  life  from  his  heart,  he  received  a  summons, 
to  attend  the  death-bed  of  his  father,  whom  a  consumption  was 
slowly  destroying.  He  obeyed ;  but  wishing  to  conceal  the 
secret  of  his  marriage  forever  from  his  friends,  he  left  his  little 
babe  to  the  care  of  my  mother,  whom  he  had  heard  spoken  of 
in  terms  of  high  commendation,  and  where  he  thought  she 
would  be  secure  from  the  vanities  and  follies  which  would 
surround  her  in  the  world ;  yet,  wishing  to  preserve  his  own 
name  and  condition  a  secret,  he  sent  a  faithful  messenger  to 
deposit  you  somewhere  about  the  premises,  and  to  remain  in 
the  vicinity  long  enough  to  be  certain  that  the  request  of  the 
note  was  complied  with.  He  then  returned  to  England,  and 
renewed  his  promise  to  his  dying  father  to  marry  Lady  Emily, 
which  promise  was  fulfilled  one  year  after.  He  lived  very 
happily  with  this  lady,  notwithstanding  his  sorrow  for  his  lost 
bride,  save  the  painful  remembrance  of  his  little  Eleonora. 
At  length,  as  the  twelve  years  were  vanished  that  he  had  prom 
ised  should  bring  him  to  claim  her,  he  confessed  the  event  of 
his  former  marriage  to  his  wife,  and  begged  her  affection  for 
his  little  forsaken  child.  The  tender  woman  forgave  the 
deception,  and  having  no  child  of  her  own,  very  gladly  accepted 
his  proposal  to  accompany  him  to  America,  in  search  of  her. 
His  lady,  however,  was  taken  ill  just  as  they  were  in  readi 
ness  to  embark,  and  a  month  after  he  laid  her  in  the  tomb, 
with  grief  almost  as  acute  as  that  which  visited  him  in  his 
first  affliction.  He  had  but  one  tie  now  that  bound  him  to 
earth,  —  the  hope  of  finding  you,  sweet  sister.  He  arrived  at 
America  just  thirteen  years  after  he  had  left  you  with  my 
mother  —  but  what  was  his  despair  to  learn  that  you  too,  the 
last  of  his  treasures,  was  in  the  grave — that  Mary  Hale  had 
shortly  after  returned  to  the  world,  and  pined  away  with  very 
grief,  till  she,  too,  rested  in  the  same  sleep.,.  Your  father  was, 
by  this  intelligence,  sunk  into  the  deepest  despair,  and  it  was 
at  this  era  that  I  first  formed  an  acquaintance  with  him.  I 
had  been  brought  up  by  an  aunt,  the  only  relation  I  possessed 


284  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

in  the  world,  except  my  mother,  and  I  could  consider  her  no 
relative,  for  I  had  never  heard  a  word  from  her,  and  knew  not 
with  what  society  of  Shakers  she  had  connected  herself —  she 
having  kept  that  matter  a  secret.  My  profession  had  been  the 
result  of  a  natural  talent,  which  exhibited  itself  in  my  earliest 
years,  and  was  encouraged  and  fostered  by  my  indulgent  aunt, 
as  long  as  she  remained  to  watch  over  me,  and  by  her  death, 
I  became  heir  to  her  little  competency  which  enabled  me  to 
improve  my  taste  in  a  considerable  degree.  I  was  engaged  in 
the  exercise  of  my  art  in  the  city  of  Boston,  when  I  met,  and 
became  interested  in  your  father.  The  interest  soon  became 
mutual.  He  learned  that  I  was  the  son  of  the  patroness  of  his 
little  Eleonora,  and  he  clung  to  me  as  the  fragment  of  some 
thing  dear  to  him.  He  was  the  first  who  informed  me  of  the 
death  of  my  mother  —  but  the  intelligence  caused  me  little 
grief.  I  knew  nothing  of  her,  personally ;  but  my  aunt,  who 
looked  upon  her  as  a  monster  of  depravity,  for  having  deserted 
and  broken  the  heart  of  her  husband,  my  aunt's  only  brother, 
had  represented  her  to  me  as  a  cold,  bigoted  devotee,  destitute 
of  natural  affection,  and  regardless  of  her  son  as  though  no  tie 
of  consanguinity  had  ever  existed  between  us.  Every  day 
strengthened  Mr.  Davenport's  affection  for  me,  and  at  length 
he  offered  me  his  home  and  all  his  possessions  if  I  would 
become  a  son  to  him  and  bear  his  name.  Could  I  reject  so 
kind  a  parent  ?  Five  years  have  now  passed  since  this  con 
nection  was  formed,  and  it  has  been  one  of  unmingled  happi 
ness  on  my  part,  and  of  peace  and  tranquil  enjoyment  on  his. 
I  have  continued  in  the  exercise  of  my  profession  as  before, 
for  to  relinquish  that  would  be  to  relinquish  the  chief  enjoy 
ment  of  life,  —  and  in  pursuance  of  themes  for  this  exercise,  I 
a  few  months  since  obtained  his  permission  to  traverse  the 
western  country,  and  gaze  upon  its  rich  forests  and  noble 
waters.  Somewhere  in  this  vicinity  I  was  startled  by  the 
mention  of  your  name.  A  gentleman  was  recommending 
Lake  Eleonora  to  my  attention  as  a  subject  well  worth  an 
artist's  pencil  —  and  as  a  prelude  to  his  description  of  its 
beauty,  he  gave  me  a  slight  sketch  of  its  discovery,  and  the 
origin  of  its  name.  You  may  judge  of  my  surprise  at  learn- 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  285 

ing  your  existence  in  this  distant  country  —  for  of  your  iden 
tity  with  the  lost  daughter  of  my  best  friend,  I  had  little  doubt ; 
yet,  to  satisfy  myself  beyond  the  possibility  of  mistake,  ere  I 
awakened  the  hopes  of  your  father,  I  resolved  to  see  you  with 
my  own  eyes,  and  be  assured  of  the  fact.  For  this  purpose,  I 
introduced  myself  to  elder  Nathan,  under  plea  of  taking  a 
sketch  of  the  lake,  and  at  the  first  view  of  you  in  the  arbor, 
I  recognized  the  daughter  of  our  father's  first  bride.  But  my 
mother  I  did  not  so  readily  identify.  The  falsity  of  the  tale 
respecting  yourself,  made  me  doubt  the  report  of  my  mother's 
death,  and  the  faintness  that  attacked  her  when  her  eye  fell 
upon  a  miniature  of  my  own  father,  which  lay  among  other 
papers  in  my  portfolio,  first  awakened  my  suspicions.  But  in 
vain  did  I  scrutinize  her  countenance,  as  she  lay  so  pale  and 
lifeless  upon  the  floor,  to  recognize  one  lineament  like  those 
the  artist  had  delineated  upon  the  canvass  in  my  possession, 
and  which  I  had  studied  much,  as  one  of  the  finest  specimens 
of  the  art.  In  vain  did  I  seek  to  find  some  vestige  of  that 
majestic  beauty  in  the  sallow  complexion,  withered  cheek,  and 
sunken  eyes  of  the  being  at  my  feet.  The  plain  close  cap,  in 
lieu  of  the  glossy  braids  she  wore  in  her  youth,  the  white 
'kerchief  where  jewels  had  rested,  in  short,  the  taut  ensemble 
was  so  very  different  I  could  find  no  food  for  my  strongest 
suspicions.  But  yesterday,  when  her  eye  was  lit  with  mater 
nal  love,  and  her  cheek  glowed  with  the  fire  of  the  soul,  1 
could,  after  many  searching  glances,  perceive  a  resemblance  to 
the  portrait  of  my  mother;  and  then  her  own  countenance 
showed  that  she  recognized  her  son;  but  I  feared  that  her 
attachment  to  her  faith  was  too  strong  to  suffer  her  to  avow 
the  truth  to  me,  and  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  as  well  as 
overjoyed  by  her  voluntary  declaration  of  our  relationship,  and 
solemn  recantation  of  the  vows  that  had  so  long  caused  her  to 
deny  it.  Forgive  me  for  having  detained  you  thus  long. 
Permit  me,  dear  sister,  to  hope  that  we  shall  soon  meet  again, 
never  to  be  parted.  Farewell,"  he  whispered,  pressing  her 
little  hand  to  his  lips,  "  farewell !  May  angels  guard  you  !" 

"  Farewell ! "  she  replied,  and  turned  away  with  tearful 
eyes. 


286  PBOSE    SELECTIONS. 

It  *#*#•*# 

Our  readers  have  been  with  us  a  long,  circuitous  path,  and 
perhaps  have  found  the  journey  frequently  dull  and  tedious ; 
but  they  have  arrived  at  the  last  scene  now ;  and  say,  dear 
readers,  is  it  not  a  pleasant  home  ?  The  parlor  is  richly  fur 
nished,  and  its  decorations  are  such  as  bespeak  its  occupants 
beings  of  taste  and  refinement.  The  representatives  of  the 
nine  Muses  are  there,  in  their  rarest  and  sweetest  personations, 
and  the  large,  magnificent  windows  open  upon  one  of  the 
loveliest  scenes  in  the  world.  The  Hudson  flows  somewhat 
restlessly  among  the  picturesque  highlands  just  in  front,  and 
the  last  bright  rays  of  the  setting  sun  stream  in  upon  the 
auburn  curls  of  a  fair  young  mother,  and  change  their  soft  hue 
to  a  radiant  gold.  A  hue,  "  like  the  soft  pink  tint  of  an  Indian 
shell,"  is  lighting  upon  the  lily  whiteness  of  her  cheek,  as  she 
bends  delighted  over  the  smiling  seraph  in  her  arms.  That 
beautiful  mother  is  Eleonora  Davenport  —  once  Eleonora,  the 
Shakeress  —  still  as  fair,  as  meek,  as  happy,  as  when,  in  her 
maiden  days,  she  hid  her  ringlets  in  a  coif,  and  wore  a  scanty 
robe,  far  less  becoming  than  the  snowy  muslin  that  now 
enfolded  her  more  fully  developed  form.  Behind  her  chair, 
with  his  hand  half  hid  among  her  rich  tresses,  stood  her  father, 
a  fine-looking  man,  who  was  seldom  more  than  a  yard  distant 
from  his  daughter,  and  who  was  alternately  bestowing  his 
caresses  upon  the  mother  and  his  happy  grandchild.  In  a 
chair,  by  the  side  of  his  young  wife,  sat  Charles  Davenport, 
resting  his  elbow  upon  his  easel,  where  was  spread  out  the 
half-finished  portrait  of  his  little  laughing  Emily,  forgetting 
his  task  in  his  admiration  of  those  living  pictures,  so  much 
lovelier  than  human  hand  can  delineate  —  and  just  a  yard  or 
two  in  front,  sat  another  figure  to  complete  the  group ;  it  is 
our  friend  Mary  —  but  who  would  recognize  her  in  the  meta 
morphosis  ?  Her  plain  muslin  cap  had  been  displaced  for  a 
lace  one  with  a  full  frill  and  white  bow ;  a  richness  had  been 
imparted  to  her  noble  brow  by  a  fold  of  jet-black  hair  —  no 
matter  if  it  be  false,  since  time  had  bleached  the  original 
tresses,  which  had  not  yet  regained  any  considerable  portion 
of  their  natural  length  —  and  her  former  white  summer  garb 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  287 

is  supplied  by  a  dark  silk,  with  a  large  pelerine  and  square 
muslin  collar. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  servant  ushered  in  an  old  man 
dressed  in  black,  and  wearing  a  white  broad-brimmed  hat. 
He  approached  the  group  a  few  yards,  and  paused  without 
speaking.  Mary  took  off  her  spectacles,  wiped  them  with  her 
handkerchief,  and  replaced  them,  peering  all  the  while  very 
earnestly  at  the  stranger.  Old  Mr.  Davenport  bowed,  Charles 
rose  and  offered  a  chair,  but  Eleonora,  dropping  her  babe  in 
her  husband's  arms,  sprang  forward  and  grasped  the  old  man's 
hand,  exclaiming,  "  Why  Nathan,  dear,  dear  Nathan,  is  it 
you?" 

"  Nathan  !  elder  Nathan  ! "  was  echoed  on  every  hand  — 
whilst  Nathan's  arms  were  round  Eleonora's  neck,  and  the 
tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks  as  though  he  were  a  child. 
"  How  did  you  come  here  ?"  she  exclaimed,  as  soon  as  he  had 
released  her,  to  grasp  Mary's  extended  hand.  "  How  did  you 
come  all  this  long  way  in  your  old  age,  and  so  changed  too ! " 
glancing  at  his  attire. 

"  How  came  I  here  ? "  he  replied ;  "  do  you  think  old  Nathan 
could  remain  longer  in  the  desolate  nest,  when  his  prettiest 
bird  was  flown  —  and  his  mate  too  —  the  faithful  mate  of 
many  years  ? "  shaking  Mary's  hand  till  it  ached  with  the 
hearty  pressure.  "  Nay  !  God  forbid  that  my  last  days  should 
be  spent  away  from  my  soul's  dearest  treasures  !  I  have  come 
to  make  my  home  with  Eleonora." 

"  Right  welcome  !  dear,  kind  Nathan,"  she  replied ;  and 
the  friendly  word  was  responded  by  every  voice,  "  Welcome, 
right  welcome ! " 

1837.  

THE  RUSTIC  WIFE. 

"  THERE  is  no  feminine  grace  so  perfectly  enchanting  as  a 
cultivated  intellect,"  said  Laurine  Seton,  to  his  lovely  com 
panion,  who  was  sitting  silently  by  his  side  after  the  departure 
of  visitors,  with  her  elbow  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  and 
her  head  languidly  reposing  upon  her  little  hand.  It  was  a 


288  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

very  beautiful  head,  high,  aid  Grecgue,  and  covered  with  rich 
brown  curls,  which  hung  with  a  shadowy  grace  about  her 
white  throat,«arid  fell  droopingly  around  a  pair  of  splendid 
eyes,  —  such  eyes  as  carry  within  them  fathomless  fountains 
of  love  and  poetry. 

She  turned  with  a  sweet  look  of  affection  toward  her  hus 
band,  when  he  spoke,  and  something  like  a  sigh  stole  silently 
from  her  parted  lips.  "  You  are  thinking  of  Madeline  Leigh  : 
she  is  very  accomplished." 

"  Yes,  and  very  talented.  What  a  perfect  fascination  there 
is  in  her  conversation  !  she  leads  mind  and  heart  captive,  even 
against  one's  will.  In  mental  cultivation  she  surpasses  any 
woman  I  ever  knew,  and  yet  she  is  young,  not  passing  twen 
ty-five,  I  presume." 

"  Did  she  carry  your  heart  captive,  dearest  ?"  said  the  gentle 
wife,  drawing  closely  to  his  side,  and  turning  her  radiant  eyes 
upon  his  with  a  most  earnest  tenderness.  "  Is  it  not  still 
mine,  simple  and  uncultivated  as  I  am  ?  0  Laurine,  do  not 
yet  tire  of  me  ! " 

"Tire  of  you!  my  love,"  he  exclaimed,  folding  her  to  his 
heart ;  "  0  never  !  You  are  very  dear,  my  sweet  Claribel, 
very;  but  you  have  not  all  of  Miss  Leigh's  intellectual  accom 
plishments  ;  few  have  :  yet  not  less  do  I  love  you  for  that. 
You  have  a  sweeter  temper,  a  more  loving  and  generous  heart, 
a  more  angel-like  beauty ;  and  even  Madeline  Leigh,  with  all 
her  brilliant  talents  and  glowing  eloquence,  has  not  such  fresh, 
pure  fountains  of  poetry  in  her  heart  as  my  own  gentle  Claribel. 
So  do  not  fear  that  I  do  not  yet  love  you  as  fondly  as  ever." 

"  But,  my  husband,  you  must  often  painfully  feel  my  de 
ficiencies  of  education,  when  companies  of  your  intellectual 
friends  are  around  you,  when  they  attempt  to  converse  with 
me,  and  find  me  so  ignorant  of  all  subjects  of  literature.  O 
Laurine  !  I  have  felt  that  I  would  go  back  to  my  mountain- 
home,  and  live  once  more  with  those  with  whom  I  was  born, 
and  who  are  as  simple  and  ignorant  as  myself.  You  then 
would  be  spared  the  mortification  you  now  endure,  and  1 
should  be  happy  in  one  thought  at  least,  —  that  you  were  not 
obliged  to  blush  for  me." 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  289 

"  O  Clari !  this  is  not  well  in  you.  Would  you  leave  me, 
then,  now,  when  I  most  deeply,  most  entirely  love  you  ?  Is 
your  mountain-home  dearer  to  you  than  to  live  with  and  for 
me  ?  Have  I  ever  treated  you  coldly,  or  as  though  I  were 
ashamed  of  you  ?  O,  could  you  know,  my  love,  how  proud  I 
have  been  of  your  beauty  and  sweetness,  and  artless  grace, 
could  you  know  how  all  your  winning  simplicity  has  been 
admired,  and  all  your  timid  enthusiasm  loved  in  my  inner 
heart,  you  would  not,  could  not,  doubt  me  thus." 

"  0,  I  don't  doubt  you,  I  don't,  any  longer,  love,"  softly 
murmured  the  beautiful  being,  twining  her  arm  about  his 
neck  ;  "  but  you  know  so  much,  and  I  so  little  —  "  She  could 
not  finish  her  words,  for  her  lips  found  themselves  held  in 
captivity. 

"  Say  no  more,  Clari :  I  ask  no  charms  sweeter  than  those 
that  make  you  already  too  bewitching.  Pray  sing  to  me  now, 
if  you  are  not  too  weary,  that  little  song  you  were  warbling 
this  morning." 

"  Well,  let  me  have  my  lips  again,  and  I  will  sing,"  she 
whispered,  blushing  softly ;  "  but,  O,  you  have  made  my  heart 
beat  so  —  " 

"How,  love?" 

"  You  should  not  let  me  know  how  you  love  me,  when  you 
wish  me  to  sing.  Turn  away  your  eyes,  Laurine,  then  I  will 
try." 

She  attempted  one  or  two  lines  in  vain.  Her  voice  was 
lost  in  the  sweet  emotions  which  his  tender  caresses  had  ex 
cited.  "  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  sing  to  please  you,  but  you  see 
it  is  impossible.  Shall  I  repeat  the  lines  to  you  ?  and  after 
ward  perhaps  I  can  sing  them." 

"-  Yes,  dear,  repeat  them  ;  do." 

Her  voice  was  very  tremulous,  but  her  enunciation  very  soft 
and  tender,  and  she  looked  up  into  his  eyes  with  unutterable 
thought  and  feeling  while  she  repeated  the  lines  which  follow : 

Come  away,  love,  come  away  ! 

In  the  fountains  stars  are  beaming 
Like  the  thoughts  within  thine  eye  : 

Moonlight  on  the  lake  is  dreaming  ; 
25 


290  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

Shadows  round  its  borders  lie  ; 

On  the  hill 

The  air  lies  still : 
Gentle  love,  O  come  away ! 

Come  away,  love,  come  away  ! 

Come  where  folded  flowers  are  sleeping, 
With  their  holy  thoughts  shut  in  ; 
Where  the  solemn  air  is  weeping 
Tears  above  a  world  of  sin  ; 
Where  the  rose 
Finds  sweet  repose  : 
Gentle  love,  O  come  away  ! 

Come  away,  love,  come  away  ! 

Where  the  smile  of  God  descending, 
Glorifies  the  listening  air, 

There,  upon  the  turf  low  bending, 
We  will  breathe  a  silent  prayer,  — 
Thou  for  me, 
And  I  for  thee  : 
Gentle  love,  O  come  away  ! 

"Thank  you,  Clari.  Whose  song  is  that?  Where  did 
you  find  it  ?  " 

Claribel  blushed,  and  faltered  a  little  ;  then,  hiding  her  face 
on  his  bosom,  answered,  "  In  my  own  heart,  dearest.  Now 
don't  laugh  at  me.  I  know  it  is  very  simple,  but  you  love  me 
too  well  to  chide  me  for  my  foolish  fondness." 

"  Chide  you,  dear  Claribel !  I  have  never  yet  half  ap 
preciated  you.  I  see  there  is  a  fountain  of  soul  within  you 
I  have  never  known  before.  These  gifts  of  yours  must  be 
cultivated.  Will  it  not  be  pleasant  for  you  to  spend  some 
hours  of  every  day  in  study  ?  " 

"  O  Laurine  !  with  you  for  my  tutor !  Bless  you.  I  will 
go  and  get  my  books  this  moment." 

"  Not  to-night,"  said  the  delighted  husband,  smiling,  and 
parting  the  bright  curls  from  her  beautiful  eyes;  "not  to 
night  :  these  sweet  eyes  need  sleep  and  rest :  to-morrow  shall 
it  not  be,  love  ?  " 

"  Just  when  you  will,  only  let  it  be  soon." 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 


291 


Claribel  scarcely  slept  at  all  that  night ;  but  as  she  rested 
quietly  upon  her  pillow,  sweet  dreams  of  the  future  passed 
through  her  brain,  receiving  from  love  and  poetry  hues  all 
coleur  de  rose,  and  seeming  so  real  in  their  beauty  that  she 
almost  deemed  them  prophetic  of  blessedness  to  come.  The 
doubts  and  apprehensions  which  had  haunted  her  so  long, 
and  disturbed  the  serenity  of  her  affections  with  their  cold, 
portending  shadows,  had  passed  suddenly  away,  and  the 
sunny  beams  of  unclouded  joy  shone  deeply  down  into  the 
fountains  of  her  spirit. 

She  felt  the  fluttering  wing  of  a  rich  genius  half-poised  in 
those  sunbeams,  and  she  knew  it  had  strength  to  soar  aloft 
through  the  boundless  heavens ;  she  knew  she  could  yet 
become  the  companion  of  her  husband's  intellect,  as  she  had 
long  been  of  his  heart ;  and  that  those  who  had  once  smiled 
at  her  ignorance,  would  yet  be  pleased  to  share  her  inter 
course.  She  loved  her  husband  with  a  degree  of  affection 
passing  into  idolatry ;  and  he  deserved  it  all,  for  he  had  taken 
her  from  her  rustic  home,  where  she  was  wasting  her  sweet 
ness  among  the  rude  and  ignorant  people  of  a  vicious  neigh 
borhood,  and  brought  her  into  the  refinement  and  elegancies 
of  cultivated  society ;  and  there  he  had  cherished  her  tender 
ly,  and  loved  her  in  all  her  simplicity  and  untutored  intelli 
gence,  better  than  he  loved  aught  else  on  earth. 

When  the  morning  dawned,  and  the  first  song  of  the  little 
canary  broke  the  stillness  of  the  house,  she  arose  softly  from 
her  bed,  and  hastily  executing  her  simple  morning  toilet,  stole 
down  into  the  library  before  any  of  the  household  were  awake. 
It  was  an  elegant  little  apartment,  and  everything  within  it 
was  arranged  with  taste  and  neatness.  She  threw  open  the 
eastern  windows  and  blinds,  and  let  in  the  light  of  the  golden 
dawn.  The  air  was  warm  and  bland.  It  came  from  a  garden 
of  acacias  and  rose-trees,  scented  with  all  their  sweets,  and 
passed  into  the  spirit  of  the  young  wife  with  a  power  to  ele 
vate  and  awaken  all  the  rich  melodies  of  her  being.  She  took 
up  a  book  that  lay  near  her.  It  was  a  volume  of  Mrs.  Hemans' 
lyrics.  She  had  read  them  a  great  deal  since  her  marriage, 
but  had  never  dared  speak  of  them  to  her  husband,  lest  she 


292  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

should  commit  some  error  of  taste.  She  knew  that  she  loved 
them  to  excess,  but  she  did  not  know  that  he,  too,  loved  them  ; 
and  he  had  so  cultivated  and  so  exquisite  a  perception  of  poetic 
beauty,  she  feared  he  would  blush  at  her  simple  preferences. 
He  was  not  in  the  habit  of  conversing  with  her  about  books, 
for  he  knew  that  the  wildwood  range  of  her  education  had  led 
her  simply  to  objects  of  perception.  She  had  not  been  accus 
tomed  to  the  silent  companionship  of  abstract  thought,  and 
could,  therefore,  have  no  taste  for  other  poetry  than  the  mur 
mur  of  running  brooks,  or  the  hum  of  a  roving  bee. 

He  thought  all  this,  and  though  he  often,  very  often,  felt 
her  deficiencies  of  mental  culture,  he  sedulouly  avoided  any 
allusion  that  could  bring  a  shade  upon  her  sensitive  spirit. 
It  did  not  occur  to  him,  perhaps,  that  he  might  be  her  teacher, 
that  he  might  easily  win  her  mind  to  a  love  and  correct  ap 
preciation  of  literature.  He •> had  waited  for  some  evidences 
of  an  inward  capability  ;  and  she,  poor  girl,  though  she  read, 
and  thought,  and  felt,  dared  not  speak,  lest  she  should  commit 
some  blunder,  or  betray  her  simplicity.  He  had  never  alluded 
to  the  subject  of  intellectual  accomplishments,  save  in  a  casual 
and  impersonal  manner,  and  she  supposed  he  deemed  her  in 
capable  of  mental  improvement.  The  timidity  of  a  love  that 
felt  itself  wanting  the  links  of  the  mind,  though  the  ties  of  the 
heart  were  strong,  kept  them  reserved  upon  all  points  in  which 
they  felt  no  assurance  of  a  mutual  sympathy. 

Deep  as  was  ClaribePs  joy  when  the  subject  was  at  last 
introduced,  and  she  had  confessed  all  her  doubts,  and  fears, 
and  wishes,  she  could  not  have  felt  a  sweeter  relief  than  that 
experienced  by  her  husband  when  he  found  that  she  had  both 
desires  and  capacities  for  literary  attainments.  He  knew  — 
he  had  long  known  —  that  she  had  quick  and  beautiful  per 
ceptions  of  things  in  the  material  world ;  that  there  were 
fountains  of  poetry  in  her  heart,  deep  and  full  of  hallowed 
feeling;  that  her  mind  was  delicate  and  high-toned  —  he 
could  not  have  loved  her  had  it  been  otherwise  —  but  he  did 
not  know  all  that  he  at  this  time  discovered ;  he  did  not  know 
that  her  mind  had  creative  as  well  as  perceptive  faculties  ;  that, 
all  untaught  as  her  genius  was,  it  could  already  breathe  itself 
out  in  music  and  sweetness. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  293 

He  rebuked  himself  for  his  long  neglect ;  for  his  unwar 
ranted  doubt  of  her  mental  capacities  ;  and,  in  atonement,  he 
resolved  to  bestow  all  his  leisure  hours  in  assisting  and  revis 
ing  her  studies.  He  heard  her  steal  away  from  her  repose  at 
an  early  hour,  and  was  impatient  to  be  with  her  in  her  new 
pursuits.  Of  all  things  that  enchanted  him,  he  loved  best 
her  sweet  enthusiasm.  It  would  be  such  a  delight  to  him  to 
witness  her  flushing  cheek  and  glistening  eye,  to  hear  the  de 
licious  tones  of  her  all-expressive  voice  —  ah !  he  could  not 
stay  to  anticipate ;  he  was  too  eager  to  enjoy  the  reality. 

The  door  of  the  library  was  partly  open,  and  through  it 
came  the  sweet  music  of  that  thrilling  poem  of  Mrs.  Hemans, 
"  Genius  singing  to  Love."  He  paused  awhile  to  listen. 
Could  it  indeed  be  his  own  Claribel  pouring  forth  such  a  flood 
of  soul  in  the  simple  recital  of  poetry  ?  Her  voice,  with  all 
its  sweet  peculiarities  of  intonation  and  depth,  seemed  fraught 
with  influences  never  felt  before.  The  music  of  the  mind  was 
there,  and  all  the  deep,  deep  heart :  it  was,  indeed,  in  her 
voice,  genius  singing  to  love. 

Her  husband  passed  silently  into  the  apartment,  and  came 
and  stood,  unobserved,  behind  her  chair.  Breathless  with 
feeling,  his  heart  melted  with  the  emotions  which  she  excited : 
he  waited,  with  folded  arms,  till  she  had  finished  the  poem ; 
then,  stooping  gently  over  her,  he  put  his  arms  about  her  neck, 
and  stopped  her  hasty  exclamation  with  an  impassioned  kiss. 

They  were  happy,  entirely  happy,  in  the  communion  of 
thought  and  feeling ;  and  the  hours  passed  quickly  away, 
winged  with  sunbeams.  That  day,  and  other  days,  went  by, 
and  Claribel  studied,  and  thought,  and  wrote,  and  delighted 
her  husband  all  he  could  desire,  with  her  rapid  improvement. 
But  the  clouds  came  at  last.  Mr.  Seton  received  a  deputa 
tion  from  the  American  government  to  England.  It  was 
unsolicited  and,  consequently,  unexpected  to  him.  But  the 
embassy  was  one  of  honor  and  pecuniary  consideration,  and, 
moreover,  offered  him  an  advantage  he  had  long  desired,  — 
that  of  becoming  acquainted  with  the  people  and  institutions 
of  England.  Only  one  consideration  caused  him  to  hesitate, 
—  Claribel  could  not  accompany  him. 
25* 


294  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

But  with  the  wonted  generosity  of  her  nature,  she  entreated 
him  to  go.  She  would  make  herself  happy  in  his  absence,  by 
believing  that  good  would  accrue  to  him ;  and  though  she 
must  necessarily  suffer  many  anxieties  for  his  sake,  and  should 
feel  herself  lonely  and  without  sympathy  while  he  was  away, 
yet  all  these  feelings  should  be  subdued  by  the  reflection  that 
greater  blessings  would  be  theirs  in  the  end.  But  she  en 
treated  long,  and  persuaded  much,  before  she  was  successful. 

"  I  tell  you,  dear  Laurine,  how  it  shall  be.  I  will  go  and 
live  with  your  aunt  Welden  till  your  return,  and  will  become 
a  little  rustic  again,  as  when  you  first  knew  me  ;  and  I  dare 
say  when  you  return  from  the  court  of  her  majesty,  you  will 
be  so  wearied  with  refinement  and  etiquette,  that  you  will 
admire  my  rural  simplicity  more  than  ever.  I  will  live  there, 
with  dear,  good  aunt  Welden,  and  shall  be  very  happy  among 
the  birds  and  flowers  ;  and  you  will  write  to  me  very  often, 
and  —  0,  dear  Laurine,  do  say  you  will  go  !" 

The  tears  stood  in  her  beautiful  eyes  all  the  while  she  was 
pleading  with  him,  but  a  sweet  smile  was  upon  her  lips, 
and  a  plaintive  tenderness  in  her  voice ;  and  the  more  she 
entreated  him  to  heed  his  own  interests  more  than  her  com 
panionship,  the  more  reluctant  he  felt  to  part  from  her.  But 
he  did  go  at  last,  and  she  retired  to  the  habitation  of  a  good 
old  aunt  of  his,  some  distance  back  in  the  country,  and  prepared 
to  make  herself  contented  during  his  term  of  legation. 

There  was  a  firm  resolve  in  her  heart,  instead  of  yielding 
to  vain  regrets  and  idle  despondency,  to  make  this  period  of 
her  life  useful  to  herself,  and,  in  the  end,  gratifying  to  him  for 
whom  alone  she  lived,  and  felt,  and  prayed  so  much.  She 
had  her  books  conveyed  to  her  rustic  residence  ;  and  for  a 
companion  and  assistant  in  her  studies,  she  took  with  her  a 
young  lady  to  whom  she  had  recently  become  fondly  attached, 
and  who  had  met  with  misfortunes,  which  left  her  dependent 
upon  her  own  exertions  for  a  livelihood.  By  this  means, 
Claribel  not  only  secured  for  herself  a  gentle  and  affectionate 
tutor  and  friend,  but  provided  a  pleasant  and  honorable  home 
for  an  unfriended  and  destitute  orphan. 

All  these  plans,  however,  were  kept  secret  from  her  hus- 


PEOSE    SELECTIONS.  295 

band.  She  had  formed  a  feminine  project  to  surprise  and 
delight  him  with  her  anticipated  improvements.  This  little 
scheme  was  the  strength  and  the  joy  of  her  heart  in  its  trials ; 
and  everything  favored  its  accomplishment.  The  residence 
of  Mrs.  Welden  was  retired  and  peaceful  almost  as  a  hermit's 
cell.  The  old  lady  had  no  family,  save  an  only  son,  a  lad  of 
eighteen  summers ;  and  her  own  habits  were  peculiarly  do 
mestic  and  unobtrusive.  The  following  letter  from  Claribel 
to  her  husband  will  better  describe  the  home  she  had  chosen, 
and  some  of  her  methods  of  wiling  away  the  time,  than  any 
attempts  of  our  own.  It  contained  all  she  chose  to  reveal  of 
her  daily  occupations. 

"  MY  BELOVED  HUSBAND,  —  Here  I  have  been  rusticating 
(a  necessary  operation  for  me  to  undergo  !)  for  nearly  a  month, 
and  have  utterly  neglected  giving  you  a  description  of  the  way 
we  do  things  at  aunt  Welden's  renowned  establishment.  0 
dear!  you  have  no  idea  how  happy  we  are.  Here  we  live  in 
a  little  white  house,  which  has  four  rooms  on  the  floor,  and 
two  chambers.  Aunt  Welden  occupies  the  kitchen  and  bed 
room  ;  then  the  dining-room  is  for  us  all,,  and  the  parlor 
exclusively  for  Marion  Lee  and  a  certain  little  rustic  of  your 
acquaintance.  '  And  pray  who  is  Marion  Lee  ?'  you  will  ask. 
Did  not  you  hear  me  speak  of  her,  shortly  before  you  left,  as 
a  very  interesting  young  lady  ?  Lest  you  may  have  forgot 
ten,  let  me  give  you  a  sketch.  She  is  one  year  older  than 
your  Clari,  a  venerable  maiden  of  eighteen,  and  an  orphan. 
She  was  educated  at  considerable  expense,  and,  from  her  in 
fancy  to  womanhood,  has  been  accustomed  to  the  luxuries  of 
wealth,  and  the  elegancies  of  cultivated  society.  But  one  of 
those  mysterious  dispensations  of  Providence,  such  as  raised 
me  from  poverty  and  utter  ignorance  to  be  the  wife  of  Laurine 
Seton,  Esq.,  the  gifted,  elegant,  accomplished  Laurine  Seton, 
has  brought  her  down  to  destitution,  to  toil  for  her  daily  bread. 
I  loved  her,  Laurine,  and  I  felt  what  a  comfort  and  consolation 
her  society  would  be  to  me  while  you  were  far  away.  So, 
partly  to  relieve  her  from  want,  and  partly  to  be  a  companion 
for  myself,  I  prevailed  on  her  to  share  my  hermitage.  0,  she 


296  PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

is  a  sweet  girl,  —  this  dear  Marion  of  mine !  She  partly 
realizes  my  idea  of  an  angel.  Her  form  is  slight  and  grace 
ful,  her  motions  exceedingly  animated,  her  limbs  moulded  to 
perfect  symmetry,  and,  pervading  all,  there  is  a  certain  spirit 
uality,  which  makes  you  feel  yourself  in  holy  presence.  Her 
face,  too,  is  very  beautiful.  I  cannot  describe  her  classically, 
but  I  can  tell  you  that  she  has  very  large,  clear  eyes,  of  a  ce 
lestial  blue,  and  hair  floating  about  her  temples  like  sunbeams. 
Her  voice,  too,  is  low  and  soft,  and  she  sings  like  a  robin.  But 
all  her  outward  charms  are  lost  in  the  fascinations  of  her  sweet 
temper  and  loving  heart.  O,  Laurine  !  I  know  you  would  love 
her.  Are  you  not  glad  I  have  found  so  gentle  and  affectionate 
a  friend  ? 

"  Well,  Marion  and  I  have  delightful  rambles  in  the  wood 
lands  and  over  the  hills.  We  have  formed  acquaintance  with 
all  the  squirrels  and  woodpeckers  that  are  to  be  found ;  and 
even  the  flowers  seem  to  recognize  us,  and  to  smile  at  our 
approach.  Sometimes,  to  vary  our  amusements,  and  do  a 
little  kindness  to  our  fellow-creatures,  we  visit  the  dwellings 
of  the  poor  and  the  sick,  and  aid  them  as  they  have  need. 
Sometimes,  too,  Marion  and  I  have  a  fine  frolic  with  aunt 
Welden  over  the  churn.  It  is  a  famous  exercise  ;  and  aunt 
Welden  does  us  the  compliment  to  say  that  her  butter  is  never 
so  sweet  as  when  she  has  the  assistance  of  two  sweet  girls  of 
her  household. 

"  You  ask  me  if  I  write  poetry  now-a-days.  Poetry,  for 
sooth  !  Now  you  didn't  mean  to  laugh  at  me,  did  you  ?  No, 
Laurine  ;  my  foolish  rhyming  habit  is  getting  cured  in  your 
absence,  and  I  am  returning  to  the  plain  prose  of  ordinary 
chitchat.  Marion  and  I  are  great  chatterboxes ;  and  sometimes 
I  get  a  little  beyond  the  '  land  of  prose,'  when  talking  to  her 
of  you.  She  is  a  little  fountain  of  poetry  herself;  and,  if 
ever  she  gets  in  love,  she  will  outpoetize  Sappho !  Pray,  am  I 
not  becoming  very  classic  ?  I  half  fancy,  my  love,  that  I  see  a 
shade  creeping  over  your  brow,  and  hear  you  murmur,  '  How 
can  Claribel  write  so  gayly  while  I  am  away  ? '  Dear  Lau 
rine  !  the  tears  are  stealing  down  my  cheeks  all  the  while  I 
am  writing  to  you ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  the  employment 
exhilarates  my  spirits,  and  makes  me  wild  with  joy. 


PHOSE   SELECTIONS.  297 

"  Do  not  forget  me,  dearest,  among  the  many  beautiful  and 
accomplished  ladies  you  meet  in  London.  When  you  return, 
you  shall  teach  me  to  know  what  they  know,  and  do  as  they 
do.  What  a  sweet  little  plan  we  had  formed  just  before  you 
were  called  away !  How  much  I  was  going  to  learn,  and  how 
proud  you  were  going  to  be  of  my  accomplishments  !  Those 
bright  visions  have  all  passed  away  ;  but  when  you  are  once 
more  at  our  dear  little  home,  and  I  am  there  at  your  side,  we 
will  renew  those  pleasant  dreams,  —  will  we  not,  love  ? 

"It  is  now  two  months  since  you  left  me ;  in  ten  more  you 
will  return.  Dear,  dear  Laurine,  you  will  make  those  long 
months  happy  to  me  by  frequent  letters, — will  you  not? 
And,  if  you  love  me,  guard  your  own  peace.  I  have  a  thou 
sand  fears  for  you ;  but  I  trust  in  Heaven.  Thanks,  ten  thou 
sand  thanks,  for  the  precious  faith  you  taught  me.  It  is  my 
strength  and  my  joy  in  all  trials ;  and  it  will  sustain  me  when 
everything  else  is  gone,  —  even,  Laurine,  your  own  idolized 
self! 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  evening,  dearest ;  would  you  were  here 
to  walk  with  me.  We  would  wander  along  the  banks  of  the 
little  murmuring  brook,  where  the  moonbeams  are  gilding  the 
waves,  and  you  should  talk  to  me  sweetly,  as  you  used  to  do, 
of  love,  and  heaven,  and  all  celestial  things.  Marion  has  just 
entered  the  room,  and  gently  entreated  me  to  ramble  with  her. 
I  cannot  deny  the  dear  girl,  and  so  will  close  this  poor  letter, 
with  a  promise  soon  to  send  you  a  longer  and  better  one. 

Dearest  Laurine,  I  remain,  as  ever,  your  own 

CLARIBEL." 

Time  passed  onward,  and  the  young  wife  progressed  rapidly 
in  her  studies.  Not  all  the  warnings  and  entreaties  of  Marion 
could  wile  her  a  day  from  her  books ;  nay,  nor  scarcely  an 
hour.  Her  cheek  grew  pale,  and  her  form  shadowy ;  yet 
every  day  found  her  more  ardently  devoted  to  literature. 
Neither  did  she  neglect  the  lighter  accomplishments.  Music 
was  an  inspiration  with  her.  A  very  few  lessons  made  her 
mistress  of  the  piano ;  and  daily  practice  gave  a  finish  and 
delicate  spirit  to  her  performance  rarely  excelled  even  by 
professors. 


298  .  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

Poetry  was  her  favorite  study.  The  works  of  the  great 
masters  became  familiar  to  her  as  household  words.  Her  ex 
ceedingly  retentive  memory  enabled  her,  with  very  little  care, 
to  repeat  a  thousand  beautiful  passages,  even  after  long  inter 
vals  ;  and  characters  and  scenes  were  embodied  in  her  imagi 
nation  with  a  striking  individuality  and  life-like  distinctness. 

Marion  marvelled  at  her  powers.  Many  years  of  study 
under  the  most  finished  masters,  had  not  led  her  further  into 
the  fields  of  science  and  literature,  than  a  few  months  had  suf 
ficed  to  do  with  Claribel.  But  Claribel  was  gifted  by  nature 
with  the  most  acute  perceptive  faculties,  and  knowledge  came 
to  her  almost  by  inspiration.  Like  Miranda,  she  had  "  a  good 
will  to  it ;"  and  this  made  the  most  intense  application  easy 
and  pleasant. 

When  winter  came,  with  his  storms  and  gloom,  and  laid 
waste  the  woodlands  and  valleys,  Claribel  grew  weary  of  her 
unbroken  seclusion,  and,  accompanied  by  Marion,,  her  insep 
arable  friend,  removed  to  New  York.  Her  principal  object, 
however,  was  to  avail  herself  of  the  assistance  of  instruction 
Marion  was  not  qualified  to  give.  About  a  month  after  their 
arrival  in  the  city,  a  young  gentleman  called  to  deliver  Clari 
bel  a  letter  from  her  husband.  It  contained  intelligence  of 
great  interest  to  her.  We  will  look  over  her  shoulder  while 
she  reads.  — 

"My  DEAR  CLARIBEL,  —  The  embassy  with  which  I  am 
charged  is  delivered,  but  not  accepted ;  and  circumstances, 
which  I  cannot  here  explain,  will  retard  the  accomplishment 
of  my  business  at  least  six  months.  But,  my  love,  we  must 
not  be  thus  long  separated.  I  have  made  arrangements  with 
the  bearer  of  this  letter,  —  Willis  Farley,  an  old  college-friend 
of  mine,  and  a  noble  fellow,  too,  —  I  have  made  arrangements 
with  him  to  bring  you  to  me  on  his  return  next  April.  That 
will  be  even  better  than  to  come  home  to  you ;  for  now  we 
can  see  England  together.  Perhaps  you  can  prevail  on  your 
friend  Marion  to  be  your  companion.  At  all  events,  be  sure 
that  she  is  provided  with  a  situation  suited  to  her  merits ;  and 
when  we  are  once  more  established  in  our  own  dear  home, 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  299 

she  shall  make  a  flower  in  our  family  wreath.  Mr.  Farley 
will  inform  you  of  the  arrangements  I  have  made  for  you ; 
and  I  trust,  my  precious  one,  that  no  obstacles  will  keep  you 
from  me.  The  ladies  of  my  acquaintance,  in  London,  often 
ask  me  concerning  my  wife.  You  will  admire  many  of  them 
exceedingly.  —  But  Farley  waits.  I  can  only  say,  come,  and 
God  bless  you  !  LAURINE  SETON." 

Claribel's  joy  was  greater  than  we  can  express.  She 
laughed  and  wept  alternately  over  the  letter,  and  even  forgot 
her  studies  in  the  wildness  of  her  emotions.  But  she  forgot 
them  not  long ;  for  the  anticipation  of  shortly  meeting  her 
husband,  and  being  introduced  by  him  into  the  higher  circles 
of  London  society,  was  a  new  incitement  to  make  herself 
worthy  of  her  station.  Yet  never  was  a  secret  more  sedu 
lously  kept  than  hers.  Even  Willis  Farley,  who  became  a 
frequent  visitor  during  the  winter,  knew  her  only  in  her 
character  of  untutored  simplicity.  He  was  pleased  with  her 
winning  grace,  and  impressed  with  her  beauty;  but  some 
times  he  could  not  but  feel  there  must  be  many  mortifications 
in  reserve  for  his  friend  Seton,  in  bringing  such  a  little  speci 
men  of  rusticity  into  association  with  the  educated  and  refined, 
with  whom  he  mingled.  He  contrasted  her  with  Marion  Lee, 
who,  though  somewhat  less  beautiful,  yet  pretty,  exceedingly, 
was  eminently  accomplished  in  all  intellectual  graces.  He 
contrasted  her  with  Marion  Lee  ;  but  was  he  an  impartial 
judge  ?  Claribel,  willing  as  she  ever  was  to  be  depreciated, 
or  rather  to  have  those  she  loved  commended  above  her,  would 
have  answered,  with  a  roguish  smile,  "  No." 

When  Claribel  first  proposed  to  Marion  to  be  her  com 
panion  to  England,  she  acceded  to  the  request  with  gratitude 
and  pleasure.  But  in  a  few  weeks  she  began  to  grow  restive, 
when  the  subject  was  discussed,  and  at  last  made  known  her 
determination  to  remain  behind.  In  vain  Claribel  besought 
her  reasons.  She  would  only  blush,  and  turn  away,  to  hide 
her  tears.  But  her  friend  was  not  quite  blind.  She  deter 
mined  to  consult  Mr.  Farley.  At  his  next  visit,  which  was 
not  long  deferred,  when  Marion  was  absent  from  the  room, 
she  introduced  the  subject. 


300  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

"  So  it  seems,  Mr.  Farley,  that  I  am  to  go  to  England  un 
attended  by  my  friend." 

Willis  started  and  blushed.     "  How  so,  Mrs.  Seton  ? " 

"  She  refuses  to  accompany  me  ;  and  my  most  urgent  solici 
tations  avail  nothing.  I  never  knew  Marion  obstinate  before." 

"  Does  she  assign  no  reasons  ?" 

"  Her  only  answer  is  a  blush  or  a  tear,  and  a  shake  of  the 
head.  I  wish  you  would  endeavor  to  change  her  determina 
tion.  I  should,  indeed,  be  very  grateful.  I  am  sure  you 
would  be  successful." 

Willis  looked  at  her  earnestly.  There  was  an  arch  smile 
playing  about  her  mouth  ;  but  truth  and  sincerity  were  also 
there.  He  blushed  a  little. 

"  I  wish  I  also  were  sure.  Where  is  Marion  ?  May  I  go 
to  her?" 

"  I  think  you  will  find  her  in  the  library.  Yes,  go  to  her  ; 
persuade  her ;  I  know  you  can." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Seton.  I  cannot  be  so  sanguine, 
though  you  have  inspired  a  hope." 

He  opened  the  door  into  the  library.  Marion  sat  with  her 
face  buried  in  her  hand.  Tears  were  trickling  through  her 
small  white  fingers.  Willis  hesitated  a  moment.  In  another 
moment  he  was  at  her  side.  One  little  hand  lay  idly  in  her 
lap.  He  ventured  to  make  it  a  prisoner.  It  was  patient  in 
its  captivity ;  and  he  pressed  it  to  his  heart. 

"Marion,"  he  murmured  gently,  "dear  Marion."  She  did 
not  speak,  but  trembled  like  an  aspen.  "  Dearest,  best  be 
loved  !  will  you  not  speak  to  me  ?"  The  tears  streamed  more 
freely  down  her  cheeks,  and  sobbing  painfully,  she  hid  her 
face  on  his  bosom.  He  asked  no  more  —  what  lover  would  ? 
—  but,  clasping  his  arms  about  her,  breathed  in  her  ear  his 
first,  deep,  fervent,  subduing  words  of  love. 

Claribel  awaited  the  termination  of  the  conference  with  a 
light  heart.  She  loved  her  friend's  happiness  almost  as  much 
as  her  own.  Indeed,  it  made  a  part  of  her  own.  Marion  did 
not  return  to  the  drawing-room  for  nearly  an  hour  after  Willis 
had  left  her.  When  she  did  return,  one  glance  at  her  trans 
parent  countenance  assured  Claribel  that  all  was  well.  It  was 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  301 

radiant  with  joy  and  gratitude.  There  was  a  tremulousness 
in  her  voice,  too,  when  she  spoke,  v/hich  revealed .  the  sweet 
agitation  of  her  heart.  Claribel  forbore  to  disturb  her  silent 
consciousness  by  a  word  or  look.  Her  own  experience  had 
taught  her  how  sweet  it  is  to  lock  some  joys  entirely  within 
one's  own  bosom. 

The  following  morning,  however,  when  they  were  standing 
together  in  a  little  alcove  rilled  with  rare  plants,  Marion  sud 
denly  inquired,  "What  will  become  of  our  flowers,  Claribel, 
while  we  are  in  England  ? " 

"  We  !  "  exclaimed  Claribel,  laughing,  and  shaking  her  head. 
"Ah,  Marion  !  I  fear  you  are  becoming  sadly  fickle.  We,  in 
England !  No,  dear,  you  are  to  stay  and  take  care  of  the 
plants  ;  I,  alone,  am  to  accompany  Mr.  Farley." 

There  was  a  brilliant  coterie  of  wits  and  geniuses  assembled 
one  evening  at  Lady  D.'s,  in  London.  She  was  one  of  the 
most  popular  ladies  in  the  metropolis,  and  a  great  patroness 
of  literature.  Her  house  was  the  resort  of  the  great  and 
gifted,  and  on  this  evening  she  had  given  a  party  with  a  view 
to  collect  them  in  honor  of  a  favorite  friend,  —  Laurine  Seton, 
and  his  beautiful  wife.  Many  of  the  most  lovely  women  of 
the  city  Avere  there,  and  the  young  American  bride  was 
expected,  with  no  little  interest.  At  length  the  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  Mr.  Seton  and  lady,  and  Mr.  Farley  and 
lady,  were  announced. 

Lady  D.  rose  to  welcome  them.  Claribel  came  forward, 
leaning  on  her  husband's  arm,  and  looking  very,  very  beauti 
ful.  She  was  dressed  with  elegant  symplicity,  and  there  was 
a  winning  and  indescribable  grace  in  her  mien  and  manners, 
which  was  as  new  as  it  was  enchanting.  She  returned  the 
salutations  of  the  company  with  ease  and  modesty,  and  sur 
prised  her  husband  by  her  dignified  assurance  and  self-posses 
sion.  There  was  a  little  fluttering  about  his  heart  when  he 
saw  the  obvious  admiration  she  excited,  and  a  half  sigh 
escaped  his  lips,  when  he  remembered  how  little  qualified  she 
was  to  retain  anything  more  than  that  excited  by  her  native 
gifts  and  graces.  He  would  willingly  have  excused  himself 
26 


302  PROSK    SELECTIONS. 

from  attendance  at  this  soiree,  but  as  it  was  intended  for  an 
express  honor  to  himself  and  lady,  he  could  find  no  plausible 
apology  for  absence. 

His  heart  sunk,  when  he  saw  Lady  D.  draw  up  her  chair, 
and  open  a  conversation  with  his  wife.  He  removed  his  seat 
to  her  side,  in  hopes  to  be  of  assistance.  Claribel  looked  up 
at  him,  and  smiled  a  little  roguishly.  He  did  not  comprehend 
the  smile,  but  he  soon  found  that  his  presence  was  not  needed 
as  an  assistance.  He  became  a  silent  auditor.  Lady  D. 
commenced  by  asking  Claribel  questions  about  American  au 
thors,  —  their  characters  and  habits  of  life.  Claribel  answered 
satisfactorily,  and  ventured  some  very  sweet  and  appropriate 
remarks  upon  the  trials  and  discouragements  attendant  upon 
authorship  in  a  new  country,  like  America,  and  of  the  many 
temptations  and  allurements  which  the  offices  and  partisan 
ships  of  a  democratic  government  were  continually  offering  to 
wile  them  from  the  thankless  toils  of  literature. 

From  authors,  they  passed  naturally  to  their  productions, 
with  which  Claribel  discovered  herself  familiar,  and  instituted 
some  very  original  and  very  striking  comparisons  between  the 
works  of  her  countrymen  and  those  of  British  authors.  From 
American  literature  they  gracefully  and  unwittingly  entered 
the  domains  of  the  old  world,  pausing  not  with  Scott,  and  By 
ron,  and  Wordsworth,  but  crossing  the  channel  to  France,  and 
from  thence  passing  to  the  land  of  Goethe  and  Schiller. 

Whatever  subject  they  touched  upon,  Claribel  expressed 
herself  modestly  and  gracefully.  There  was  no  display,  no 
visible  consciousness  of  success ;  but  her  sweet  perceptions 
and  peculiar  eloquence  were  appreciated,  and  silently  admired. 
The  gentlemen  were  not  slow  to  estimate  her  accomplish 
ments.  They  gradually  joined  in  the  conversation,  till  Clari 
bel  found  herself  surrounded  by  many  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  of  the  day.  Marion,  too,  received  a  share  of  admiration, 
though  she  had  less  of  genius  to  fascinate.  She  was  less  en 
thusiastic,  and  less  easily  excited ;  but  beneath  a  very  quiet 
exterior,  as  is  usually  the  case,  were  buried  fountains  of  deep 
and  fervent  feeling. 

Claribel  was  in  conversation  with  M .    He  made  some 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  303 

remark  which  he  attempted  to  verify  by  an  Italian  quotation. 
Her  husband's  surprise  must  be  imagined  when  he  heard  her 
refuting  the  sentiment  hidden  from  himself  by  a  language  to 
which  he  possessed  no  key ;  and,  directly  afterward,  she  was 
quoting  Madame  de  Stael  in  the  original !  He  understood, 
now,  the  little  ruse  she  had  been  playing,  and  was  deeply 
affected  by  this  expressive  token  of  her  love.  He  longed  to 
be  near  to  her  once  more,  and  to  whisper  his  gratitude  in 
her  ear. 

Toward  the  last  hours  of  the  evening,  a  call  was  made  for 
music.  Claribel  had  an  early  invitation  from  many  voices, 
but  distrusting  the  composure  of  her  nerves,  after  so  much 
unusual  excitement  as  she  had  recently  experienced,  she  ear 
nestly  declined.  But  entreaties  were  renewed ;  and,  after 
listening  awhile  to  a  variety  of  skilful  performers,  she  suf 
fered  herself  to  be  led  to  the  piano.  The  first  piece  she 
attempted  was  by  a  celebrated  composer,  then  present ;  and 
when  she  had  finished  it,  he  came  to  her,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
and  assured  her  that  he  felt  himself  exceedingly  indebted ; 
for  never  before  had  he  heard  one  of  his  own  productions  ex 
pressed  with  so  perfect  an  individuality  of  melody,  so  to  speak, 
as  that  she  had  honored  by  her  performance.  Other  voices, 
too,  applauded,  but  she  heard  them  not ;  she  heard  only  a  low 
sigh,  breathed  by  one  who  stood  at  her  side.  She  looked  up, 
and  encountered  a  flood  of  tenderness,  from  eyes  whose  light 
was  the  sunshine  of  her  soul.  She  attempted  to  resign  her 
seat ;  but  "  One  more,  one  more,  Mrs.  Seton,"  from  many  lips, 
withheld  her. 

She  hesitated  a  few  moments,  and  then  touching  the  keys 
very  plaintively,  she  burst  into  a  wild  and  tender  melody,  that 
brought  tears  to  every  eye.  It  was  exquisitely  simple,  and 
new  to  every  ear.  No  voice  broke  the  silence  for  more  than 
a  minute  after  she  had  ceased.  The  composer  at  last  spoke  : 
"  Pray  tell  us,  Mrs.  Seton,  the  author  of  that  sweet,  sweet 
thing."  —  "  And  of  the  words,  of  the  words  ! "  exclaimed  a  poet 
of  the  company.  Claribel  blushed,  and  replied,  "  I  cannot 
tell."  "  I  can,"  gently  interposed  Marion ;  "  could  any  other 
than  the  author  perform  anything  so  exquisitely  ? " 


304  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

Every  one  looked  gratified.  La  urine  was  too  happy  to 
speak ;  but,  as  he  led  her  away  from  the  piano,  a  silent 
pressure  of  the  hand  told  her  how  deeply  he  was  affected. 
"  Laurine,  forgive  me,"  she  whispered  ;  "  I  have  intended  no 
triumph,  but  I  am  happy,  if  a  year's  assiduous  application 
has  spared  you  one  moment's  mortification.  1  care  for  no 
approval,  save  for  your  gratification."  "  Dearest,"  he  replied, 
"  I  do  not  yet  half  know  you.  I  tremble  to  find  how  greatly 
you  now  excel  all  my  fondest  dreams  of  what  I  dared  to  hope 
you  might  be.  To  think  of  my  little  '  rustic  wife  '  becoming 
the  star  of  London  ! " 

1841. 


THE  GOSSIPINGS  OF  IDLE  HOURS. 

HOUR  FIRST.  —  Well,  this  must  be  an  idle  afternoon,  de 
spite  all  my  good  will  to  industry.  The  spirit  is  willing,  but 
the  flesh  is  weak.  This  soft  south  wind,  making  dreamy 
melody  among  the  branches  of  the  elm  that  grows  up  at  my 
window,  has  a  strange  mesmeric  influence  upon  my  nerves. 
My  old,  velvet-covered,  (Tabby  velvet,  dear  reader,)  square- 
backed  arm-chair,  has  such  a  winning  aspect  of  repose,  that 
in  spite  of  a  most  womanly  resistance,  I  have  suffered  myself 
at  last  to  be  received  passively  within  its  gentle,  mahogany 
arms.  Farewell,  now,  to  needle,  thimble,  scissors,  thread ; 
farewell  to  books,  crayons,  pictures,  pens,  and  ink ;  farewell 
to  everything  in  the  habitable  universe  save  this  most  bewitch 
ing,  consummate  repose.  Even  Thomson's  Castle  of  Indo 
lence  could  not  be  a  more  delicious  retreat  than  this  same 
little  room  of  mine,  and  this  luxurious  green  velvet  arm-chair. 

"  Whatever  smacks  of  noyance,  or  unrest, 
Is  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  delicious  nest." 

I  have  the  greatest  good  will  imaginable  toward  all  the 
grand  movements  of  the  age ;  but  pardon  me,  dear  reader, 
even  a  movement  across  this  little  apartment  to-day,  would  be 
worse  than  a  Catholic  penance.  Even  the  last  work  of  Charles 
Dickens,  (Heaven  bless  him  !)  lying  on  the  window-seat  be 
side  me,  yet  unread,  has  not  power  to  tempt  me  from  my 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  305 

Eden  of  rest,  my  dear  little  "  Sleepy  Hollow."  Yet  I  do  not 
wish  to  sleep.  My  thoughts  were  never  more  wakeful  than 
now.  Let  me,  therefore,  gaze  out  upon  these  little  street- 
scenes  that  are  enacted  so  quietly  before  me,  and  I  will  gossip 
to  you  about  them  with  my  tongue,  which  is  the  only  mem 
ber  at  present  capable  of  activity. 

The  village  road  makes  a  graceful  curve,  and  winds  off 
from  my  sight  behind  a  dell  of  tasselled  willows  ;  but  just  at 
this  point  a  branch  of  this  same  thoroughfare  takes  the  aban- . 
doned  course  of  the  old  road,  and  at  the  very  spot  where  the 
line  of  my  vision  terminates,  makes  another  fork,  and,  with 
both  arms,  nearly  surrounds  our  little  cream-colored  church. 
Opposite  this  chapel  is  the  small  village  school-house.  The 
scene  is  pretty.  It  has,  at  least,  a  rural  look. 

Let  us  take  a  gossiping  view  of  the  passengers  that  trudge 
along  this  street.  Emerging  from  behind  the  willow  dell,  I 
see  the  stooping  figure  of  a  "  pack-pedlar."  Like  many  a 
genteel  "  loafer,"  he  carries  all  his  wealth  upon  his  back  — 
and  a  ponderous  load  it  seems.  Step  by  step,  he  labors  along 
the  way.  Now  he  ascends  the  grassy  slope  to  our  neighbor's 
dwelling,  and  rap,  rap,  rap,  go  his  bony  knuckles  against  the 
door.  The  mistress  of  the  house  appears.  The  positive 
shakes  of  her  head  are  no  rebuff  to  his  earnest  entreaties  for 
her  patronage.  Down  he  tumbles  his  huge  burthen  upon  the 
entry  floor.  Scarfs,  veils,  ribbons,  laces,  and  jewels  are  tempt 
ingly  displayed.  Seeing  that  these  make  no  headway  against 
her  principles  of  economy,  he  begins  next  to  unpack  ninepen- 
ny-calicoes,  spool-cotton,  steel  bodkins,  assorted  needles,  hooks 
and  eyes,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  all  of  which  are  among  the  "  must 
haves"  of  life.  Finally,  he  prevails  on  her  to  take  some  little 
article  named  in  his  catalogue,  and  apparently  satisfied  with 
his  luck,  replaces  his  pack,  makes  a  low,  foreigner's  bow,  and 
departs. 

Hard  as  the  labor  of  his  way  must  be,  doubtless  his  itin 
erant  life  has  many  charms.  If  he  has  an  eye  open  to  the 
beauties  of  nature,  he  has  opportunities  of  witnessing  them  in 
all  their  numerous  varieties.  Mountains  and  valleys,  plains 
and  woodlands,  are  traversed  by  his  practised  feet.  He  sees 
26* 


306  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

the  upspringing  of  the  first  violet  by  the  road-side,  and  the 
last  aster,  that  survives  the  blast  of  the  northern  wind,  looks 
up  to  cheer  him  on  his  way.  By  the  shores  of  lakes  and  the 
banks  of  rivers,  across  wild  brawling  streams  and  through 
glens  of  softest  green,  he  pursues  his  path,  from  village  to 
village,  seeking,  like  Banyan's  pilgrim,  to  ease  himself  of  the 
burthen  that  weighs  down  his  weary  limbs.  Human  nature, 
too,  he  sees  in  every  variety.  Into  every  dwelling  he  finds 
admittance,  and  comes  in  contact  with  every  form  of  human 
ity.  Many  a  family  history  does  he  store  up  in  his  mind,  as 
year  after  year  he  takes  his  accustomed  round.  Many  a 
humorous  anecdote  and  romantic  incident  does  he  treasure 
up,  to  make  food  for  thought  when  old  age  shall  have  put  an 
interdict  upon  his  laborious  wanderings.  But  we  must  leave 
the  poor  pedlar  to  pursue  his  way,  and  recommend  to  such  of 
our  listeners  as  would  know  more  of  his  itinerant  profession, 
the  beautiful  delineations  of  Wordsworth,  and  of  that  sweet 
friend  of  ours,  the  author  of  the  "  BLIND  PEDLAR."* 

The  next  figure  in  the  landscape  is  that  of  a  woman.  We 
must  gossip  gently  this  time,  for  she  is  a  poor,  lone  being 
who  approaches  —  one  to  whom  our  gentle  Lord  might  have 
said,  "  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee ;  go  and  sin  no  more." 
The  wind,  filling  her  short,  scarlet  cloak,  bears  it  out  like  a 
streamer  behind  ;  her  hood,  also,  of  faded  green  silk,  is  blown 
back  from  her  forehead,  over  which  fall  straggling  locks  of 
coal-black  hair,  rivalling  in  hue  the  eyes  that  roll  beneath ; 
and  upon  her  bare  and  brawny  arm  she  bears  a  basket  filled 
with  cranberries,  the  harvest  of  her  morning  labors.  The 
long  strides  that  she  takes  soon  diminish  the  distance  that 
lies  between  us  ;  she  is  crossing  the  door-yard  now  —  is  now 
beneath  my  window  —  looks  up  with  a  foolish  simper,  and 
salutes  me  with  a  low,  girlish  curtsey. 

Poor  old  Susey  !  When  I  am  eating  the  nice  tarts  made 
from  those  fresh  spring  cranberries,  a  thought  shall  stray  to 
you  in  your  far-off,  lonely  hut.  But  no  !  I  forget.  The  hut 
is  in  ruins  now,  and  another  home  —  the  pauper's  home  is 

*  See  Vol.  IX.  of  Ladies'  Repository. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  307 

yours.  But  your  heart  has  led  you  back  there  to  that  old 
and  loved  retreat  —  I  am  sure  it  has  led  you  there,  for  in  no 
other  spot  grow  the  meadow-cranberries  so  large  and  red.  It 
was  but  the  other  day  that  I,  too,  visited  the  ruins.  After  a 
long,  long  ramble  through  the  wildest  and  greenest  old  woods, 
where  the  moss  carpets  the  whole  earth,  and  is  jewelled  over 
with  scarlet  winter-berries  and  purple  anemones  —  after  a 
long,  long  ramble,  through  thickets  of  the  glossiest-leaved 
laurel,  and  beneath  the  green  arches  of  slant  old  hemlocks, 
we  came  suddenly  upon  a  large,  green,  billowy  pond,  whose 
waves  were  tossing  angrily  against  its  high  wooded  banks. 
Hills  surrounded  it  on  every  side  but  one  —  and  on  that  side 
gushed  forth  a  merry  stream,  near  the  banks  of  which  were 
the  ruins  of  poor  Susey's  hut.  All  around  was  solitary. 
Woods  and  hills  shut  in  the  view  on  every  hand ;  and  no 
sound  was  heard  but  the  groaning  of  the  waves,  the  laughing 
ripple  of  the  brook,  and  the  caw !  caw  !  of  melancholy  crows. 
Here  for  many  years  had  been  old  Susey's  habitation.  How 
she  subsisted  was  a  wonder  to  me ;  so  far  away  from  the 
dwellings  of  men  and  the  comforts  of  human  society.  But 
my  father  showed  me  the  spot  where  she  used  to  raise  corn, 
perhaps  other  vegetables,  also ;  and  very  near  this  place, 
through  the  corner  of  a  woodland,  lay  a  large  meadow  filled 
with  cranberries  and  cowslips,  which  the  old  woman  occasion 
ally  brought  into  the  village,  to  exchange  for  salt-meat  and 
other  articles  of  provision.  Yes,  it  must  be  that  she  has  been 
to  the  old  meadow  again,  and  gazed  long  and  ruefully,  no 
doubt,  upon  the  pile  of  bricks  and  stone  that  mark  the  spot 
of  her  ancient  residence.  Who  will  blame  her  if  she  fondly 
loved  that  wild  and  lowly  home  ?  She  had  little  else  to  love, 
poor  thing  !  little  else  to  claim  her  thoughts.  And  even  the 
affections  of  the  sinful  and  the  abandoned  must  have  some 
object  around  which  to  cling,  though  it  be  but  a  crumbling 
hearthstone,  or  a  patch  of  barren  ground. 

From  behind  that  same  group  of  willows  approaches  an 
other  form.  The  walk  is  a  familiar  one.  I  know  every 
attitude,  every  motion.  Why  should  I  not  ?  He  is  one  of 
the  household,  dear  fellow !  Ah  !  he  is  returning  from  the 


308  PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

post-office.  His  hands  are  full  of  packages,  newspapers,  &c. 
Wait  a  moment.  "Any  letters  for  me,  Johnny?"  "One. 

Guess  who  from,  and  you  shall  have  it."   "  From  Mrs. ?  " 

"No."   "Miss ?"   "No."   "Mr. ?"   "No."   "Well, 

who  is  it  ?  You  don't  know  whether  I  guess  right  or  not, 
How  should  you  ?"  "Because  I  know  the  post-mark  and  the 
handwriting."  "  Oh  !  don't  make  me  guess  any  longer.  Do 
give  me  the  letter."  "  I  am  sure  you  will  guess  right  this 
time,"  says  Johnny,  laughing.  "  If  it  were  not  so  very,  very, 
very  long  since  my  last  letter,  that  I  quite  despair  of  ever 
receiving  a  reply,  I  should  almost  fancy,  from  its  aspect,  that 

it  might  be  from ."     "  You  are  right,"  is  the  reply  ;  and 

dash  comes  the  letter  into  my  lap.  No,  it  has  fallen  behind 
my  chair.  Farewell,  dear  reader,  to  idleness  and  to  you. 
This  letter  has  acted  like  a  galvanic  battery.  Were  the 
strength  of  a  giant  required  to  break  the  seal,  I  am  sure  I 
could  do  it  without  delay. 
1842. 

HOUR  SECOND.  —  Well,  the  idle  hour  has  come  again  — 
the  idle,  dreamy  summer  hour.  Not  now  am  I  snugly  repos 
ing  in  the  arms  of  my  Tabby-velvet,  and  gazing  out  upon 
that  quiet  village  scene.  This  parlor  rocking-chair,  of  crimson 
velvet,  (not  an  unwelcome  substitute,)  commands  a  far  different 
view  —  a  view  of  jostling  crowds,  and  brick  pavements,  and 
vehicles  of  every  form,  and  character,  and  device ;  of  bearded 
manhood,  and  budding  childhood,  and  laughing  beauty ;  of 
tottering  eld,  and  creeping  invalidity ;  of  all  the  indescribable 
varieties  of  human  beings  and  human  action. 

What  a  contrast  between  city  and  country  life  !  How  dif 
ferent  the  objects  that  claim  our  admiration  and  awaken  our 
interest !  Here  Art  is  queen  of  the  kingdom.  She  erects  her 
arches,  and  rears  her  turrets,  and  cuts  out  of  the  shapeless 
marble,  statuary  of  surpassing  beauty.  We  look  through  the 
dusty  pane  into  the  dark  and  cheerless  apartment  of  the 
sculptor.  Forms  of  breathless  beauty  are  around  him  —  the 
creations  of  his  own  soul,  the  visible  manifestations  of  the 
loveliest  ideals  of  a  human  spirit.  Through  the  bow-windows 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  oUtJ 

of  the  shopman  glitter  the  costliest  jewels,  and  fabrics  of  the 
richest  material,  and  rarest  workmanship.  Wherever  we  turn, 
all  is  art. 

But  there,  in  the  green  and  breezy  country,  Nature  has 
established  her  eternal  rule.  Her  domes  are  the  spreading 
branches  of  giant  oaks  and  lofty  sycamores ;  her  columns  are 
the  moss-painted  trunks  of  century-old  trees ;  her  altars  are 
grass-grown  banks,  jewelled  with  golden  dandelions ;  and  upon 
every  nodding  bough  and  in  every  tuft  of  sedge,  sit  her  wild 
and  tuneful  minstrels,  pouring  forth  their  lays  of  melting 
sweetness,  or  gathering  into  their  little  hearts  themes  for  a 
thousand  future  songs. 

And  yet,  despite  the  contrast,  one  grows,  in  time,  to  love 
the  city,  even  if  it  be  only  from  a  love  of  his  own  kind.  One 
grows,  even,  to  love  the  very  streets  ;  not  that  they  are  beau 
tiful,  save  in  the  living  beauty  that  trips  over  them ;  but  there 
are  associations  —  associations  without  which  the  most  glorious 
scenes  in  the  universe  are  dull,  and  speechless,  and  tame.  It 
is  not  the  love  of  the  physically  beautiful  which  makes  the 
charm  of  human  existence ;  it  is  not  outward  loveliness  and 
glory  which  makes  one  spot  of  earth  dearer  to  us  than  another. 
There  is  something  within,  and  beyond  all  this.  There  is  a 
spirit,  as  well  as  a  form,  necessary  even  to  inanimate  things 
—  a  spirit  of  memory  and  of  association. 

The  most  magnificent  residence  in  the  vicinity  of  OUT 
metropolis,  would  be  less  dear,  and  less  lovely  to  us  as  stran 
gers,  than  the  dirtiest,  and  meanest,  and  gloomiest  of  its 
streets,  if  only  kind  hearts  had  beat  for  us  there,  if  only  gentle 
eyes  had  smiled,  and  voices  had  uttered  their  words  of  love, 
and  the  feelings  of  our  own  souls  had  been  holy  and  pure, 
around  its  most  desolate  hearthstone. 

Those  old  trees  across  the  street,  with  their  crooked  branches 
and  deep  green  foliage  —  how  well  I  have  grown  to  love  them 
from  the  very  simplest  of  associations  !  I  love  them  because  I 
watch  them  —  because  they  are  ever  before  my  eyes  through 
the  day,  and  the  sound  of  their  waving  leaves  is  in  my  ears 
through  the  night.  I  love  them  because  they  are  benefactors 
to  the  race  that  bustles  around  them ;  because  they  cast  their 


310  PEOSE    SELECTIONS. 

cooling  shade  over  the  dusty  and  weary  plodder ;  because  they 
cheer  the  invalid's  eye,  and  speak  to  finite,  perishing  man,  of 
the  Infinite  and  Imperishable  God. 
1842. 

HOTTR  THIRD.  —  Night  in  this  great  and  bustling  city; 
beautiful,  glorious  night !  The  country  is  grand,  gloomy,  and 
solemn  now,  but  the  city  is  a  scene  of  most  impressive  mag 
nificence.  Look  forth  with  me  from  this  lofty  window,  into 
the  long  and  glittering  street.  The  gas-lights  glare  on  either 
hand,  and  floods  of  radiance  stream  from  the  windows  of  lofty 
dwellings  and  gild  the  black  and  wavy  branches  of  those  giant 
trees  that  overshadow  the  Mall,  illustrating  in  mezzotint,  as  it 
were,  the  gorgeous  descriptions  of  the  poets  of  the  Orient. 

Night  in  the  city !  The  billowy  mass  of  human  life  that 
has  been  sounding  its  ocean-like  anthem  through  the  long, 
midsummer  day,  is  as  hushed  and  quiet  now  as  though  its 
great  heart  had  ceased  to  beat.  The  hoarse  bay  of  a  watch 
dog  from  a  neighboring  stable,  the  half-smothered  cry  of  a 
restless  infant,  the  hollow  cough  of  some  sleepless  invalid,  the 
heavy  tread  of  the  muffled  watchman,  —  these  are  all  the 
sounds  that  give  token  of  the  presence  of  life  in  this  great  and 
crowded  city.  How  impressive  is  this  silence  !  How  solemn  ! 
It  awes  me  more  than  the  crashing  thunder,  or  the  roar  of  the 
storm-king  upon  the  ocean.  The  spirit  fancies  itself  alone  in 
the  universe  —  human  life  all  dead,  and  no  companion  save 
the  glittering  stars,  whose  rays  of  light  come  to  our  souls  with 
as  sweet  an  influence,  almost,  as  messages  from  the  absent 
whom  we  love.  Never  do  we  so  truly  feel  the  presence  of  the 
Infinite  as  now.  Never  are  we  so  conscious  of  the  sway  He 
holds  over  our  spiritual  being.  Hushed,  and  reverent,  and 
thrilled  with  holy  love,  we  bow  down  before  Him,  and  his 
blessing  fills  our  souls. 

1842. 

Boston  Harbor. 

HOUR  FOURTH.  —  The  sun  is  now  on  his  descent  to  the  hori 
zon,  and  his  yellow  rays  fall  slant  upon  the  bosoms  of  the 
grassy  islands,  and  gild  with  silvery  chains  the  surface  of  the 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  311 

sea.  In  the  wake  of  our  gallant  boat  follows  a  black,  dismal- 
looking  British  steamer,  bound  for  Halifax.  She  comes  slowly 
lumbering  along  in  the  distance,  pouring  from  her  red  nostrils 
an  immense  cloud  of  smoke,  through  whose  wreathy  borders 
the  sun  diffuses  his  radiant  light,  and  whose  vast  column 
stretches  far,  far  behind,  as  though  it  would  daub  with  its 
murky  touch,  the  blushing  face  of  the  sun. 

Behind  us  lies  the  favorite  city,  with  its  crowning  dome, 
and  its  walls  of  brick  —  the  Navy  Yard  —  half  hid  by  tower 
ing  masts  and  deep-green  trees,  and  high  above  all,  "  the 
granite  finger,  moistened  by  the  blood  of  patriotism,  and  point 
ing  upward  from  the  sod  to  heaven."  And  now  slowly  from 
the  north-east  rises  a  dense  curtain  of  fog,  veiling  from  our 
sight  the  green  islands  and  rock-bound  peninsulas  that  border 
our  ocean-path.  With  the  demon  of  sea-sickness  for  our  com 
panion,  come,  dear  Ella,  let  us  court  the  comforts  of  a  crowded 
cabin.  Now  and  then  a  fog-bell,  to  give  warning  to  the 
unconscious  vessels  in  our  pathway,  and  the  bellowing  of 
waves  near  the  shoals,  shall  break  to  us  the  monotony  of  a  long 
and  miserable  night.  Ah,  well;  this  sea-sickness  is  delicious. 
It  draws  one's  head  down  so  cosily  to  the  pillow,  and  makes 
one  feel  so  perfectly  independent  of  all  destiny.  We  fear 
little  from  accidents  now.  And  yet  we  have  a  sort  of  dreamy 
consciousness  of  what  is  passing  around  us,  and  a  disposition 
to  be  amused  even  in  the  midst  of  our  misery. 

Hark !  there  is  a  scene  passing  below  us.  That  is  the 
voice  of  the  cabin-maid.  "I  want  thirty-seven  and  a  half 
cents  for  your  supper !  " 

"  What  ?"  replies  a  faint,  half-smothered  voice  from  one  of 
the  berths. 

"  I  want  thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents  for  your  supper ! " 
screams  in  a  still  louder  voice  the  cabin-maid. 

"  What  ?  "  again  inquired  the  deaf  lady. 

"  I  want  thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents  for  your  supper ! "  is 
reiterated  in  a  still  more  vociferous  accent. 

This  colloquy  is  repeated  a  dozen  times  or  more,  and  at 
last  the  stewardess  leaves  the  cabin  in  despair.  Now  we  sink 
into  a  gentle  doze  for  a  moment  or  two,  forgetting  alike  our 


312  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

miseries  and  our  amusements.  Alas !  like  all  sublunary  hap 
piness,  this  proves  to  be  but  transitory.  The  cabin-maid 
returns,  and  the  deaf  lady,  awakened  from  her  torpor,  makes 
some  monetary  overture. 

"  I  only  had  a  half  of  a  cup  of  tea,  and  a  little  bit  of  biscuit," 
she  adds,  in  a  deprecating  tone. 

"  No  matter ;  you  are  welcome  to  it ;  I  '11  not  charge  you 
anything  for  your  supper —  you  are  welcome  to  it  —  welcome 
to  it  —  I  asked  the  steward  about  it,  and  he  says  I  may  give 
it  to  you,  if  I  'm  a  mind  to." 

This  fuss  over,  the  cabin  continues  pretty  quiet  till  morn 
ing.  About  dressing  time  the  hubbub  is  renewed.  Sea-sick 
mothers,  dead  for  a  season  to  all  parental  tenderness,  petu 
lantly  wish  their  children  thrown  overboard  ;  call  them  "  little 
torments,"  declare  that  they  detest  them,  and  use  sundry 
other  terms  of  endearment,  while  the  little  vomiting  darlings 
look  up  in  surprise,  wondering  what  change  can  have  come 
over  mamma,  that  she  has  no  pity  for  their  sufferings. 

How  welcome  to  us  all  comes  the  sound  of  the  bell  which 
announces  our  arrival  at  the  wharf.  Faint,  and  reeling,  and 
misanthropic,  we  stagger  up  from  the  cabin,  and  with  a  hearty 
pleasure  bid  farewell  to  Portland  Boat,  and  are  ushered  across 
the  plank  into  beautiful  Portland  City. 

1842. 

Westbrook,  Me. 

HOUR  FIFTH.  —  The  scene  has  changed.  No  sight  nor  sound 
of  the  ocean  reaches  us  here.  Woodland  quiet  —  the  breath 
of  flowers  —  the  waving  of  green  trees  —  the  singing  of  happy 
birds  —  these  are  the  soft  influences  that  now  surround  us. 
The  eyes  of  joyous  children  smile  on  us  ;  and  the  clasping  of 
warm  hands  thrills  the  nerves  that  lie  nearest  to  our  hearts. 

If  God  be  not  more  in  the  country  than  in  the  town,  he  at 
least  gives  us  more  immediate  inspiration  of  his  presence. 
We  are  too  susceptible  to  surrounding  influences  not  to  be 
affected  by  the  purity  and  beauty  and  solemnity  of  country 
solitude.  In  place  of  the  brick  and  paving  stone,  the  little 
flower  springs  up  to  carpet  the  earth  for  our  feet  —  the  little 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  313 

flower,  whose  perfect  organization,  whose  fragrance  and  beauty, 
are  alone  sufficient  to  prove  to  us  the  existence  of  an  All-wise 
and  All-gracious  Father.  Every  kindly  emotion  seems  fos 
tered  hy  this  rural  quiet.  Let  us  sit  down,  Ella,  on  this  bank 
of  shining  grass.  Does  not  this  scene  bring  to  thy  heart  a 
remembrance  of  former  hours  —  of  other  solitudes  —  of  a  home 
dearer  to  me  than  this  can  be  to  thee  ?  Canst  thou  recall  to 
mind  revelations  of  the  inner  heart  that  were  uttered  beneath 
the  sighing  pines  of  a  woodland  far,  far  away  ?  And  dost  thou 
know  how  that  same  heart  has  since  changed  ?  How  old  it 
has  grown,  and  wise  ? 

Thou  art  smiling,  as  though  thou  wert  doubting  either  its 
wisdom  or  its  age ;  but  a  heart  that  has  had  much  experience 
can  still  be  gay ;  and  though  it  may  have  learned  wisdom, 
can  screen  it  all  beneath  a  careless  and  indifferent  air.  That 
maiden,  whose  dreamings  were  so  freely  revealed  to  us,  has 
grown  mature  in  heart,  and  the  unphilosophical,  and  the 
romantic  might  accuse  her  of  worldliness ;  perhaps,  even  of 
sordid  selfishness.  But  they  would  do  her  wrong.  Romance, 
indeed,  has  become  to  her  as  vanished  dream  —  but  reality  — 
life  in  its  more  earnest  and  truthful  aspect,  has  revealed  itself 
to  her  mind  ;  and  she  has  learned  to  distinguish  between  the 
bowery  and  tortuous  path  which  leads  into  a  land  of  mists 
and  rainbows,  and  that  more  rugged  and  unattractive  way 
whose  windings  will  terminate  in  useful  and  substantial  hap 
piness. 

1842. 

HOXTR  SIXTH.  —  Well,  Lottie,  I  am  on  my  green  throne  once 
more  —  my  comfortable  velvet  arm-chair,  of  gossiping  noto 
riety  —  and  who  shall  forbid  me  the  luxury  of  a  long  chat  with 
any  true-hearted  friend  I  choose  to  call  to  my  side  ?  Have 
you  any  choice  of  a  theme  ?  I  could  give  you  some  rude, 
crayon-like  sketches  of  our  little  village  in  its  dilapidated 
autumn  magnificence  ;  but  descriptions  of  scenery  are  becom 
ing  trite ;  and  "  the  poets"  have  "  worked  over  the  stock"  (as 
the  paper-mill  phrase  is)  till  there  is  scarcely  a  fibre  left  on 
which  to  string  the  pulp.  So,  dilettante-ish  as  you  are,  I 
27 


314  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

shall  not  gratify  your  taste  for  the  picturesque  by  cross-stitch 
ing  upon  my  gossip-canvass  any  images  of  little  crooked  trees, 
such  as  threw  you  into  ecstasies  at  L.,  or  of  moss-covered 
cottages,  with  creaking  well-sweeps  in  front.  No,  you  shall 
have  something  more  transcendental ;  some  "  Orphic-sayings," 
whose  wonderful  wisdom  shall  be  hidden  from  all  those  who 
are  behind  us  in  the  flights  of  the  "  Over-Soul." 

We  are  neither  of  us  yet,  like  the  year,  dear  Lottie,  "  in 
the  sere  and  yellow  leaf."  We  look  not  upon  life  as  a  pageant 
that  is  past,  but  as  one  in  which  we  are,  ourselves,  now  act 
ing.  True,  we  mingle  not  in  its  tumults  —  wear  none  of  its 
panoplies  —  are  not  heard  sounding  alarms  upon  its  watch- 
towers  ;  nevertheless,  all  quietly  though  we  sit  in  the  myrtle- 
bowers  of  love,  and  peace,  and  domestic  retirement,  we  cannot 
forget  that  we  have  brothers,  friends,  knights,  perchance, 
Lottie,  busily  engaged  in  its  conflicts.  God  strengthen  their 
hearts  and  nerve  their  souls  in  every  great  and  noble  contest ! 
Who  fight  so  bravely  as  they  ?  Who  wield  the  sword  of  truth 
so  valiantly?  Who  wear  the  snowy  plumes  of  Christian 
faith  so  gallantly  waving  in  the  clear  breezes  and  glorious 
sunshine  of  heaven  ? 

Hark,  Lottie !  The  sound  of  trumpets  and  the  cries  of 
heralds !  Let  us  go  sit  awhile  in  yonder  deserted  watch- 
tower,  and  look  down  upon  the  army  as  they  pass.  What  a 
glorious  procession !  How  majestically  the  broad  white  Ban 
ner  of  Love  swells  to  and  fro  to  the  soft  winds  of  heaven ! 
Look !  its  insignia  is  but  a  simple  cross,  with  the  motto,  — 
"  God  is  Love  !  "  Yonder  cometh  the  leader  of  this  splendid 
array.  He  is  attired  in  pilgrim-robes,  and  his  sandals  are 
worn  and  soiled ;  but  Napoleon  never  wore  so  proud  a  crest, 
as  the  thin,  proud  locks  that  wave  upon  this  good  man's  brow. 
And  here,  Lottie,  cometh  another  general ;  the  pride  of  the 
army.  With  firm  step  and  undaunted  brow,  he  has  been 
foremost  and  strongest  in  the  battle.  He  has  crossed  Alps, 
and  warred  amid  the  Pyramids ;  nor  has  he  been  driven  back 
by  worse  than  Russian  snows  and  Moscow  fires.  Yet  see 
him  when  the  hour  of  rest  has  come,  and  you  will  find  a  group 
of  children  around  his  knees,  playing,  may  be,  with  the  very 
sword  that  has  slain  giants  in  the  battle. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  315 

There  cometh  a  brave  champion  —  hark!  what  a  strong 
blast  he  blows  upon  that  great  Trumpet !  "  Glad  tidings  of 
great  joy  which  shall  be  unto  ALL  PEOPLE  ! "  Again  !  Again ! 
the  cry  is  caught  up,  and  echoed  back  by  a  thousand  clear- 
voiced  clarions  far  and  near!  And  look,  Lottie!  Ah,  yes, 
you  have  recognized  him,  I  see  —  our  brother  —  that  gallant 
warrior,  who  finds  it  so  difficult  to  curb  "the  impetuous  charger 
that  has  borne  him  proudly  through  many  victories.  And  at 
his  side  is  a  still  younger  herald,  who  bears  a  silver  clarion  in 
his  hand,  and  wears  for  his  crest  a  small  radiant  star.  Wave 
your  scarf  at  them,  Lottie — 'the  bravest  in  camp  and  the 
gentlest  in  bower  —  wave  them  your  scarf  from  the  turreted 
tower ! 

Now  cast  your  eye  along  from  right  to  left.  How  many 
kind,  familiar  faces  meet  our  gaze.  Fathers,  brothers,  mem 
bers  all  of  the  great  "  household  of  faith."  There  is  one  in 
minstrel  garb,  with  a  wreath  of  olive  around  his  brow.  If  need 
be,  he  can  put  on  the  armor  of  a  soldier,  and  dash  into  the 
hottest  of  the  fight ;  but  he  loveth  better  the  soothing  spell  of 
poesy ;  and,  in  chieftain's  hall  and  lady's  bower,  has  tuned 
his  harp  to  many  a  sacred  lay,  and  rehearsed  many  a  tale  of 
Love  Divine  at  the  hearth-stones  of  the  afflicted  and  the  poor. 
God  bless  him  for  his  earnest  heart  and  active  hand!  God 
bless  one  and  all  of  those  brave  and  faithful  soldiers  that  labor 
at  his  side  ! 

Do  you  see  that  bright-eyed,  smiling  young  warrior,  who 
kisses  his  hand  to  us  from  the  crowd  ?  There  is  not  a  braver 
or  more  zealous-hearted  and  devoted  knight  in  all  the  army 
of  the  Cross,  than  he.  He  is,  moreover,  the  leader  of  the 
juvenile  corps.  And  that  sunny-lipped  herald,  with  a  garland 
of  queenly  lilies  on  his  brow,  who  precedes  the  van-guard  of 
the  army  —  hark  !  how  the  music  of  his  clarion  thrills  through 
the  hearts  of  the  multitude  !  How  deep  its  tones  and  rich ! 
How  exquisitely  they  die  away  over  the  mountain  tops,  and 
how  sweetly  they  break  forth  again,  and  ring  through  the 
quiet  valley  !  "  Peace  on  earth,  and  good  will  to  men  ! "  is 
the  angel-like  proclamation,  to  which  all  the  vanguard,  noblest 
of  the  army,  respond  aloud  —  "  Amen ! " 


316  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

The  vision  has  faded,  Lottie,  and  here  we  sit  again,  as 
through  the  magic  of  Ali's  carpet,  in  this  quiet,  secluded  cham- 
her.  The  gossip-spirit  has  deserted  me ;  and  I  have  a  fancy 
now,  instead  of  amusing  others,  to  be  amused  myself;  so  draw 
your  chair  a  little  nearer  to  my  throne,  and  in  your  own 
beautiful  words,  give  me  one  of  the  "  Lights  or  Shadows  of 
Woman's  Life."  Alas !  Lottie,  the  shadows  are  so  numerous 
in  poor  woman's  lot,  that  if  you  are  in  the  mood  for  it,  I 
would  rather  the  present  sketch  should  be  a  sunny  one  —  a 
Light  instead  of  a  Shadow. 

1842. 

HOUR  SEVENTH.  —  There,  the  fire  burns  brightly  now,  and 
its  genial  warmth,  diffused  through  my  chilly  frame,  has  acted 
by  a  kind  of  sympathetic  magnetism  upon  my  brain  and  heart. 
How  unfortunate,  now  that  I  am  in  a  social  mood,  that  no 
kind  neighbor  will  "just  drop  in"  to  chat  an  hour  with  me  ! 

Rap  !  rap !  rap !  How  like  a  fairy  benison  comes  that  wel 
come  announcement  of  a  visitor  !  Who,  I  wonder,  can  it  be  ? 
Let  us  take  a  peep  through  the  window  before  giving  admit 
tance.  Ah  !  it  is  old  Uncle  Moses,  the  village  sexton.  I  know 
him  by  his  long  white  hair  and  low-crowned  hat.  It  is  too 
bad  to  keep  the  old  man  standing  so  long  in  the  furious  storm. 
I  will  hasten  to  admit  him. 

"  Take  the  arm-chair,  Uncle  Moses,  and  let  me  unlade  your 
cloak  of  the  snow  that  has  gathered  upon  it  like  a  drapery  of 
ermine." 

"  Shake  off  the  snow,  you  mean,  girl,  I  suppose.  Pray 
don't  starch  up  your  sentences,  and  embroider  them  over 
with  so  many  figures  and  fine  words.  I  am  an  old  man,  and 
love  to  hear  things  said  in  the  old-fashioned,  homespun  way. 
Young  ladies  are  getting  to  be  sadly  artificial,  now-a-days." 

"True,  Uncle  Moses ;  and  I  beg  pardon  for  having  offended 
your  ears  with  '  fine  words.'  It  is  not  a  common  fault  of 
mine,  I  assure  you.  If  anybody  talks  simply,  it  is  I.  So 
allow  me  to  draw  my  chair  close  to  your  side,  and  have  a  real 
gossip  with  you  about  things  past,  present,  and  to  come. 
First,  then,  is  there  any  '  news '  about  the  village  ? ' 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  317 

"News — yes,  that's  it !  You  women  are  always  wanting 
something  new.  Gossip  is  the  food  you  live  upon." 

"  Now  don't  be  so  hard  upon  us,  Uncle  Moses.  You  know 
there  must  be  a  little  pepper  in  the  dish  of  life,  and  I  have  had 
none  in  mine  for  a  long  while  past.  So  do  tell  me  directly, 
have  there  been  no  births,  deaths,  or  marriages,  within  the  last 
month?" 

"  I  used  my  spade,  yesterday." 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Moses  !  you  make  me  shudder.  Pray  don't  be 
so  frightfully  laconic.  Tell  me,  at  once,  who  is  dead." 

"  No  one.     I  used  it  to  break  the  ice  from  my  door-step." 

"  How  could  you  frighten  me  so  for  nothing  ?  But  as  you 
seem  determined  to  tell  me  nothing  of  recent  occurrence,  do 
satisfy  my  cravings  for  novelty  with  some  fragments  from 
your  basket  of  memories.  I  am  sure  you  must  be  rich  in 
reminiscences." 

"  I  am,  I  am,  girl !  An  old  grave-digger  like  me  is  always 
picking  up  some  little  incident  to  lay  aside  in  his  store-house 
of  recollections.  But  they  are  all  of  them  simple  and  trite  — 
scarce  worth  repeating  to  one  who  is  eager  as  you  are  for 
novelty.  However,  I  will  talk  to  you  awhile  about  some  of 
the  tenants  of  my  houses  —  those  narrow  houses  with  green 
grassy  roofs,  and  graven  slate-stones  for  tiles.  Do  you  remem 
ber  a  beautiful  white  rose-bush,  the  only  one  in  the  grave 
yard,  that  hangs  its  blossoms  over  the  wall,  near  the  gate  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  have  often  paused  at  that  spot,  and  wondered 
whether  it  were  a  grave  —  for  there  is  no  monument  or  name 
to  give  token  of  any  sleeper  beneath." 

"If  you  had  searched  more  carefully,  you  would  have 
found  a  small  tablet  which  lies  quite  hidden  by  the  grass. 
'  Jeanette '  was  the  name  of  the  lovely  girl  whose  grave  is 
there,  and  it  is  the  only  epitaph  left  to  memorialize  her  quiet 
history.  I  had  not  been  many  years  a  digger  of  graves,  when 
there  moved  into  the  little  mossy-roofed  cottage  by  the  church, 
a  young  Scotch  gardener  and  his  wife.  One  day,  as  I  stood 
by  a  half-made  grave-pit,  leaning  wearily  upon  my  spade,  a 
little  fairy  of  a  girl  came  tripping  modestly  to  my  side.  I  am 
a  great  lover  of  little  children,  and  never  repulse  them  when 
27* 


318  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

they  come  about  me  at  my  work.  This  little  girl  fastened 
herself  to  my  heart  at  once.  She  told  me  her  name.  It  was 
Jeanette.  She  was  the  daughter,  the  only  child,  of  the  Scotch 
gardener. 

"  From  this  day  forth  she  never  saw  me  at  my  work,  that 
she  did  not  make  herself  my  companion.  How  she  would 
chase  about  among  the  old  gray  tombstones,  plucking  the  yel 
low  dandelions  and  the  purple  heal-all,  and  weaving  them  into 
garlands  to  hang  upon  the  baby  headstones !  One  day  she 
found  a  nest  of  young  robins  close  under  the  shelter  of  a 
reclining  gravestone ;  and  such  delight  as  the  sweet  creature 
experienced  in  feeding  and  watching  the  little  brood,  was 
beautiful  to  behold.  Till  she  was  sixteen  years  old,  this  dar 
ling  girl  never  long  neglected  her  favorite  haunt.  She  became 
to  me  the  angel  of  the  place,  cheering  me  ever  in  my  hard  and 
gloomy  toil,  and  bringing  her  own  serene  and  cheerful  piety 
to  brighten  the  darker  colors  of  my  own. 

"  About  this  time  she  suddenly  neglected  me ;  and  I  used 
to  see  her  walking  in  another  and  more  retired  retreat,  accom 
panied  by  a  young,  dark-eyed  youth,  to  whom  in  the  course 
of  time  she  was  solemnly  plighted  by  the  holiest  of  lover's 
vows.  The  young  fellow  enlisted  as  a  soldier,  went  to  battle, 
and  was  killed  before  he  had  gained  a  single  honor.  Poor 
Jeanette  !  she  returned  now  to  her  olden  haunt,  but  with  a  face 
and  step  so  changed,  it  used  to  sadden,  more  than  in  former 
times  it  had  cheered  me  to  see  her  approach.  She  never  spoke 
of  Harry ;  but  she  brought  green  and  fragrant  shrubs,  and 
planted  them  in  the  corner  by  the  gate  ;  and  then  she  came  to 
me  with  a  sweet  moonlight  smile  upon  her  lips ;  '  Uncle 
Moses,'  she  said,  '  I  wish  you  to  dig  my  grave  just  in  the 
centre  of  those  rose-bushes ;  and  then,  after  you  have  covered 
me  over,  let  the  green  grass  grow  upon  the  spot,  and  have 
nothing  but  a  simple  tablet  bearing  my  name,  laid  there  to 
designate  my  resting-place.' 

"'Long  be  the  time  ere  I  am  called  to  so  mournful  an  office,' 
I  replied,  looking  anxiously  into  the  dear  girl's  eyes,  which 
were  unnaturally  large  and  bright.  She  smiled  again,  and 
glided  silently  away.  It  was  her  last  visit.  When  next  she 


PROSE    SELECTIONS,  319 

came,  she  was  borne  by  the  hands  of  eight  weeping  boys,  and 
lowered  into  the  grave  which  she  had  bade  me  dig  among  her 
rose-trees.  That  beautiful  bush,  which  now  clambers  over  the 
wall,  is  the  only  one  that  has  till  this  day  survived;  for  it  is 
now  twenty  years  since  they  laid  that  little  lamb  in  her  quiet 
bed." 

"  Poor  Jeanette  !  I  shall  visit  that  spot  with  a  new  interest 
in  future.  It  is  true,  then,  that  woman  does  sometimes  die 
of  a  broken  heart  ?  " 

"  Indeed  she  does,  often,  often.  If  you  doubt  it,  go  with 
me  some  day  among  the  tenements  in  yonder  church-yard. 
I  can  point  out  to  you  more  than  a  dozen  mounds,  beneath 
which  moulder  away  the  fragments  of  broken  hearts.  Some 
have  wasted  beneath  neglect ;  some  have  been  corrupted  and 
betrayed ;  others  have  been  eaten  away  by  sorrows  that  are 
without  names ;  and  not  a  few  have  died  as  Jeanette  did, 
because  the  link  of  love  was  irremediably  broken,  to  be  reunited 
only,  in  the  world  of  enduring  bliss." 

"  I  doubt  it  not,  Uncle  Moses.  Indeed,  I  presume  I  may 
follow  their  example." 

"  Not  while  that  '  lurking  devil '  in  your  eye  (Uncle  Moses 
reads  the  poets)  so  strongly  belies  the  presumption.  There 
are  forty-nine  wild  spirits  to  be  tamed  in  your  heart  before  it 
will  be  in  a  breaking  condition." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  So  much  the  merrier  my  life  will  be, 
then  —  that  is  all.  But  why  do  you  go  so  soon  ?  You  have 
not  given  me  half  your  reminiscences  yet." 

"  Wait  till  another  time,  child.  My  heart  is  too  sad  now, 
thinking  of  pretty  Jeanette." 

1843.  _ 

HOUR  EIGHTH.  —  "  Social  feelings  strong — inquisitive  organs 
remarkably  developed  —  great  propensity  for  a  well-seasoned 
dish  of  gossip,  taken  with  strong  tea !  etc.  etc.  etc.,"  said  my 
little  mischief-loving,  phrenological  friend  Emma,  running  her 
pretty  fingers  over  my  head  and  sadly  disordering  my  hair ; 
and  then  tying  the  strings  of  her  foolish-looking,  spaniel-eared 
hood  beneath  her  dimpled  chin,  she  ran  away  just  as  I  was 
trying  to  tease  a  little  heart-secret  from  her. 


320  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

And  soj  I  must  pass  this  long  winter  evening  alone.  What 
friend  shall  I  call  down  from  the  shelves  of  my  little  library  ? 
Milton,  with  his  sweet,  fanciful  "  Comus  ;  "  or  Irving,  whose 
quaint  dreams  and  homestead  pictures  have  made  him  the 
favorite  of  all  genial  hearts  and  generous  intellects  ?  Or  shall 
it  be  one  of  the  gentler  sex  —  dear  Miss  Mitford,  and  her 
pretty  village  heroines,  or  charming  Mary  Howitt,  with  her 
alchymic  genius,  changing  all  it  touches  into  the  rarest  of 
gold? 

Dear  me !  Who  would  have  thought  that  in  dislodging 
this  beautiful  copy  of  the  "  American  Poets,"  I  needed  to  have 
rattled  down  a  half-dozen  heavy  octavos  upon  the  floor ! 

There  comes  M now,!  dare  say,  to  find  out  what  all  this 

noise  is  about.  Bless  me,  no  !  it  is  old  Uncle  Moses  again ! 
How  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  sir !  You  find  me  quite  alone, 
and,  as  usual,  regretting  my  solitude." 

"  Alone  !  Young  ladies  who  have  minds  and  hearts,  should 
never  be  alone.  Thought  is  the  most  improving  of  all  com 
panions." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?     Now  I  often  find  it  very  stupid." 

"  Your  own  fault,  then,  daughter.  It  is  your  duty  to  give 
it  a  serious  and  instructive  character;  then  you  will  never 
complain  that  solitude  is  irksome.  But  you  were  about  to  sit 
down  to  your  book,  were  you  not  ?  A  handsome  volume  that. 
Poetry,  is  it  ?  Ah,  well,  they  print  a  deal  of  such  stuff  now- 
a-days,  but  I  reckon  I  have  buried  up  sweeter  poetry  beneath 
the  clods  of  yonder  church-yard  than  any  you  will  find  in 
books."  * 

"  I  dare  say  it.  And,  by  the  way,  did  you  not  promise  me, 
Uncle  Moses,  some  further  reminiscences  of  your  professional 
life  ?  Now  is  the  time,  if  you  are  in  a  mood  for  it ;  but,  first, 
let  me  apologize  for  not  having  sooner  offered  to  relieve  you 
of  your  surtout.  You  will  find  it  uncomfortable  at  the  fire 
side." 

"  Well,  my  girl,  you  must  assist  me,  for  this  plaguy  rheu 
matism  has  taken  the  strength  all  out  of  my  arms.  But 
before  you  lay  it  aside,  let  me  take  something  from  the  pocket 
that  I  may  need  in  the  course  of  the  evening." 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  321 

"  O  what  a  pretty  little  ivory  box !  Do  let  me  open  it,  for  I 
am  as  curious  as  Pandora.  Was  it  dug  out  of  a  grave  ?" 

"  No,  dear.  It  contains  merely  a  few  relics  of  one  who  was 
very  precious  to  my  heart.  You  may  look  at  them,  if  you 
wish,  though  they  will  have  little  interest  aside  from  what  is 
associated  with  her  history,  poor  girl ! " 

"  Oh  !  a  picture  !  How  beautiful  it  is  !  What  soft,  melan 
choly  eyes,  and  small,  chiselled  lips  !  Do  tell  me  her  story. 
But  stop  —  here  is  something  more.  A  lock  of  rich,  brown 
hair;  —  how  gracefully  it  curls,  and  how  glossy  it  looks, 
as  I  hold  it  up  to  the  light !  She  must  have  been  a  lovely 
creature." 

"  She  was." 

"  And  this  was  her  ring,  I  suppose.  The  initials  on  it  are 
H.  W." 

"  Helen  Whitman." 

"What  is  this  dark  spot  upon  it?  It  looks  like  blood! 
Pray  do  tell  me  her  story." 

"  Well,  be  patient  a  little,  and  I  will  try.  When  our  village 
academy  was  first  built  —  which  is  some  twenty  years  ago  — 
an  advertisement  was  sent  out  in  the  papers  for  some  lady 
qualified  to  take  charge  of  the  girls'  department.  Applicants 
to  this  office  were  not  as  numerous  in  those  days  as  they  are 
now ;  and  only  three  presented  themselves.  One  was  a  widow 
about  forty  years  old;  one  a  maiden  lady  approaching  her 
'  fourth  corner,'  and  the  third,  a  young  girl  of  seventeen,  named 
Helen  Whitman.  The  committee  selected  to  examine  the 
qualifications  of  the  applicants  were  young  men,  and  two  of 
them  unmarried.  Whether  this  circumstance  had  any  influ 
ence  upon  their  decision,  I  will  leave  you,  who  are  younger 
than  I,  to  determine.  It  is  true,  however,  that  the  two  elder 
ladies,  like  most  of  your  literary  women,  were  remarkably 
homely ;  and  that  Helen  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  girls 
ever  seen  in  our  village.  She  was  the  unanimous  choice ; 
and  though  there  were  some  demurrings  among  the  prudent 
parents  on  account  of  her  youth,  the  committee  were  resolute 
in  declaring  that  her  attainments  were  of  a  very  superior 
character ;  and  as  it  was  an  undoubted  fact  that  much  of  the 


322  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

children's  progress  depended  upon  their  attachment  to  their 
teacher,  they  had  selected  from  the  ladies  the  one  who  was 
possessed  of  the  sweetest  disposition.  Some  one  ventured  to 
inquire  how  they  were  so  certain  of  this,  the  three  candidates 
being  equally  strangers.  '  Why,  any  booby  might  know  it,  or 
rather  anybody  would  be  a  booby  that  did  n't ! "  answered 
Charles  Warrener,  the  youngest  of  the  committee.  '  Look 
into  her  face,'  said  he,  '  and  see  what  a  radiation  of  goodness 
and  gentleness  is  there  !  Why,  there  is  not  a  greater  contrast 
between  December  and  June,  than  there  is  between  the  stiff, 
dogmatical,  Westminster-Catechism  look  of  that  old  maid,  and 
the  sweet,  smiling,  yet  melancholy  beauty  of  Helen  Whitman. 
As  for  the  widow,  she  is  well  enough,'  he  continued,  'but 
then  —  she  is  old,  and  homely,  and  has  the  rheumatism,  and 
I  dare  say  would  do  quite  as  much  at  grunting  and  groaning 
as  she  would  at  teaching.  She  looks'  too  much  like  a  milk- 
and-water  character,  too,  to  suit  me.'  This  was  Charles 
Warrener's  reasoning,  and  as  his  reasoning  was  generally 
satisfactory  to  all  the  young  ladies,  it  was,  in  consequence,  to 
the  mammas,  and,  through  their  influence,  to  the  papas ;  so 
the  choice  of  the  committee  was  shortly  ratified  by  the  whole 
village,  and  Helen's  star  was  at  once  in  the  ascendant. 

"  There  was  one  circumstance,  however,  which  had  occa 
sioned  a  little  discussion  and  hesitation  amongst  the  com 
mittee.  The  two  elder  candidates  came  loaded  with  recom 
mendations  from  doctors,  judges,  and  professors ;  but  poor 
Helen  had  not  a  single  certificate  to  present,  except  her  own 
sweet  countenance.  She  made  her  plea,  however,  and  it  was 
more  effectual  than  a  thousand  certificates.  '  Gentlemen,'  said 
she,  '  I  have  brought  no  recommendations.  I  am  willing  to 
give  such  testimonies  of  my  capacities  as  you  have  the  dispo 
sition  to  require  of  me,  personally.  I  am  an  orphan.  I  was 
educated  by  my  mother ;  and  as  the  place  of  my  birth  is  hun 
dreds  of  miles  distant,  and  as  I  have  no  acquaintances  out  of 
that  immediate  vicinity,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  procure 
certificates.  I  have  no  experience  as  a  teacher ;  and  it  will 
be,  therefore,  unsafe  for  you  to  engage  me  for  a  longer  period 
than  one  quarter.  Be  assured,  gentlemen,  I  shall  accept  no 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

compensation  for  my  services  unless  they  fully  meet  your 
approval.' 

"  The  singularity  of  a  young  girl's  coming  '  hundreds  of 
miles,'  unfriended  and  unrecommended,  and  trusting  to  Provi 
dence  and  the  generosity  of  strangers  for  success,  together 
with  her  extreme  beauty  and  interesting  manners,  was  suffi 
cient  at  once  to  enlist  the  heartiest  sympathies  of  the  committee. 
They  would  have  engaged  her  for  a  year;  but  this  she  posi 
tively  declined ;  and  young  Warrener  said  he  was  glad,  for 
he  did  not  know  but  he  might  wish  to  engage  her  for  himself 
by  that  time. 

"  As  wife  and  I  had  no  children,  our  house  was  thought  to 
be  more  quiet  and  commodious  than  those  of  our  neighbors, 
which  were  overstocked.  We  were  accordingly  applied  to,  by 
the  committee,  for  board ;  and  the  next  week  Helen  became 
an  inmate  of  our  family.  She  soon  seemed  to  me  like  a  child. 
Her  manners  were  extremely  winning  and  affectionate,  and 
overflowed  with  kindness  to  every  living  thing.  Her  scholars 
loved  her  intensely.  It  was  not  enough  for  them  to  be  with 
her  at  school ;  they  literally  haunted  the  house  when  she  was 
at  home,  bringing  flowers  and  berries,  and  fruits  in  abundance, 
as  testimonials  of  their  true-hearted  love.  '  Helen,'  I  used  to 
say  to  her,  '  how  is  it  you  contrive  to  make  those  little  crea 
tures  love  you  so  ? '  '  Oh,  no  mystery  at  all,'  she  would 
answer  ;  '  they  do  it  as  naturally  as  the  flowers  dispense  their 
fragrance  to  the  winds  that  kiss  them.  Knowing  how  much 
my  heart  is  bound  up  in  them,  they  cannot  choose  but  love 
me  a  little  in  return.' 

"  You  remarked  the  melancholy  of  those  eyes.  It  was  not 
their  unvarying  expression,  yet  it  was  seen  there  often,  and 
always  when  she  was  meditative.  Her  nature  was  full  of 
hope  and  cheerfulness.  Some  painful  circumstance  could 
alone  have  induced  such  enduring  sadness.  True,  she  was 
an  orphan,  and  to  one  of  her  affectionate  disposition  this  must 
have  been  a  severe  allotment.  But  she  was  so  truly  a  Chris 
tian,  so  trustful  in  her  religious  feelings,  so  unwavering  in  her 
belief  that  all  God's  dispensations  are  for  the  greatest  good  of 
his  offspring,  that  I  was  confident  it  must  have  been  something 


324  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

worse  than  the  loss  of  friends  which  could  produce  such  abid 
ing  sorrow. 

"  The  whole  village  was  her  admirer,  and  especially  that 
portion  of  it  embraced  in  the  person  of  Charles  Warrener. 
He  was  a  young  lawyer  of  fine  talents,  and  many  personal 
accomplishments.  He  had  a  soul,  too ;  as  I  am  sorry  to  say 
all  lawyers  have  not ;  though  I  do  not  join  the  general  crusade 
against  the  profession.  Yes,  Charley  Warrener  was  as  good- 
hearted  a  fellow  as  you  will  meet  in  a  thousand ;  and  a  great 
admirer  of  beautiful  and  intellectual  women.  He  had  been  a 
sort  of  butterfly,  flitting  from  one  pretty  girl  to  another,  half 
an  hour  in  love  with  one,  and  the  next  moment  as  much 
engrossed  with  another.  Some  called  him  a  trifler,  but  I  do 
not  think  he  intended  anything  like  flirtation.  He  was  search 
ing  for  his  ideal,  and  he  found  it  in  Helen  Whitman. 

"  He  had  a  little  niece  who  attended  Helen's  school,  and 
who  soon  became  a  great  favorite  with  her  teacher.  Very 
frequently  the  little  girl  would  come  in  the  morning  with  a 
handful  of  beautiful  wild  flowers,  which  Uncle  Charles  had 
helped  her  select  for  Miss  Whitman's  herbarium ;  or  with 
some  rare  specimen  of  garnet  or  quartz,  which  he  trusted 
might  find  admittance  to  her  cabinet;  or  a  potted  plant  to 
shade  her  window.  And  if  there  was  to  be  a  ride,  or  sail, 
or  wood  party,  (which  answered  to  modern  pic-nics,)  Uncle 
Charles  \isually  came  in  person  to  solicit  her  attendance. 

"  Everybody  predicted  a  match  ;  and  even  I  saw  no  sufficient 
reason  why  it  should  not  be  so,  especially  when  I  observed 
the  visible  embarrassment  his  attentions  excited  in  Helen. 
But  at  length,  to  the  surprise  of  us  all,  she  declined  all  these 
attentions,  and  as  far  as  was  possible,  consistently  with  her 
situation,  secluded  herself  from  society.  Her  melancholy  now 
grew  deeper  and  more  absorbing.  Some  violent  struggle  was 
shaking  her  very  soul.  Yet  she  bore  it  silently,  and  would 
have  fain  hidden  it  from  every  eye.  She  tried  to  affect  gayety  ; 
but  the  laugh  died  away  upon  her  lips,  and  the  tones  that  were 
meant  to  be  cheerful  came  tremulous  and  broken  to  our  ears. 

"  Not  to  prolong  my  story,  however,  for  I  see  it  is  getting 
late,  I  will  hasten  over  several  months,  to  early  June  of  1825. 
I  was  sitting,  one  day,  in  our  little  back  parlor,  by  the  open 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

window.  A  summer-house  was  affixed  to  the  window,  and 
so  completely  covered  with  vines  on  every  side,  as  to  prevent 
all  communication  of  sight,  though  not  of  sound,  between  those 
within  and  without.  It  was  about  sunset  that  I  heard  some 
one  enter  the  summer-house,  whom  I  supposed  to  be  Helen, 
I  was  about  to  address  her,  when  a  second  person  entered,  or, 
rather,  as  I  thought,  seated  himself  upon  the  step  of  the  door. 
The  chair  in  which  I  was  sitting  was  an  arm-chair,  and  I  had 
drawn  my  writing-desk  up  so  closely  that  it  was  impossible 
for  me  to  retire  without  making  sufficient  noise  to  interrupt 
the  conversation,  which  had  already  been  of  too  delicate  a 
nature  to  be  adapted  to  the  ears  of  a  third  party.  I  was 
obliged,  therefore,  to  become  an  involuntary  listener  to  poor 
Helen's  narrative. 

" '  Mr.  Warrener,'  she  said,  (for  he  was  her  companion,)  '  I 
have  been  for  months  shrinking  from  this  explanation,  and 
should  withhold  it  even  longer,  did  I  not  feel  that  true  affec 
tion  should  receive,  at  least,  the  meed  of  confidence.  A  dark 
cloud  hangs  over  my  destiny,  and  will  follow  me,  or  lead  me, 
rather,  to  the  grave ;  but  there  is  some  comfort  in  the  thought 
that  its  shadow  will  rest  only  upon  one.' 

" '  Say  not  so,  Helen,'  interrupted  Warrener,  earnestly ; 
'  the  darkest  portion  of  it  is  already  upon  me,  and  certainly  is 
not  lessened  any  by  my  ignorance  of  its  character.  Can  /  be 
in  the  sunshine,  when  clouds  are  over  your  pathway  ?  Never, 
Helen  !  I  should  disdain  to  be  happy  unless  you  were  so  !' 

" '  You  are  very  kind,'  said  Helen,  in  a  voice  struggling 
with  her  misery,  '  and  I  would  to  God  that  it  were  possible  to 
spare  you  any  portion  of  my  suffering ;  it  is  not,  however,  if 
you  love  me,  as  I  have  cause  to  think  you  do.  Nay,  make  no 
new  protestations,  Charles  ;  they  but  increase  the  pain  at  my 
heart.  And  now,  let  me  ask,  how  much  can  you  bear  to  know 
of  Helen's  history  ?  Will  you  hate  her  if  she  tells  you  she  is 
a  child  of  guilt  ? ' 

" '  No,  Helen,'  he  answered,  gravely,  '  the  time  for  pride  is 
gone  by.     No  disgrace  that  rests  upon  your  name  can  make 
you  less  the  object  of  my  noblest  love.     In  your  own  person, 
I  am  sure  you  are  guiltless.' 
28 


326  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

" '  But,  Charles,'  she  said,  shuddering,  '  it  is  an  awful  stain 
that  rests  upon  poor  Helen's  name  —  the  stain  of  human 
blood ! ' 

"'Good  God!  is  it  possible?'  exclaimed  he,  springing  to 
his  feet.  'Nay,  forgive  me;  it  was  but  of  your  agony  I 
thought.  From  you  nothing  can  make  me  shrink.  Let  me 
support  you,  dear  Helen;  you  are  faint.  Lean  upon  my 
bosom  this  once,  if  it  must  be  no  more.  Now,  when  you  are 
quite  calm,  you  shall  tell  me  all,  and  I  am  sure  it  will  be  a 
relief  to  you.' 

"  I  heard  the  poor  girl  weeping.  '  Oh,  but  for  this  one 
dreadful  memory,  I  might  be  so  happy ! '  she  exclaimed,  in  a 
voice  that  went  deep  into  more  than  one  soul.  '  Why, 
Charles,'  she  said,  in  a  sudden  tone  of  cheerfulness,  strangely 
at  variance  with  the  fearful  import  of  her  words,  '  I  am  the 
poor,  miserable  child  of  a  murderer .'  And  oh !  what  is  a 
thousand  fold  more  agonizing,  the  blood  that  he  spilt  was  the 
blood  of  my  mother  !  But  don't  weep,  Charles,'  she  added, 
tenderly ;  '  your  sympathy  makes  me  very  strong.  Look 
here,'  she  said ;  '  this  was  my  mother's  bridal  ring  —  the 
pledge  of  her  husband's  undying  love ;  see  how  he  stained  it 
with  her  blood  ! ' 

"  '  And  why,  Helen,  why  ?' 

"  '  Because  he  was  "  a  bold  bad  man,"  passionate  and  jealous, 
and  inebriated.  He  accused  her  of  guilt,  and  when  she  knelt 
down,  and  before  God  protested  her  innocence,  he  struck  her 
dead  at  his  feet !  He  did  not  flee,  but  sullenly  awaited  his 
trial,  confessed  his  guilt,  and,  unrepentant,  ended  his  wretched 
being  on  the  scaffold.  How  I  lived  through  it  all,  I  know 
not,  for  I  loved  my  mother  beyond  all  human  beings  ;  but  it 
was  God's  will  that  I  should  not  die  ;  and  when  I  had  suffi 
ciently  recovered  my  health  and  mental  composure,  I  left  my 
native  place,  and  adopting  my  mother's  maiden  name,  came 
here,  where  my  history  and  parentage  are  unknown.  I  bore 
my  grief  more  patiently  before  I  learned  to  love  you,  Charles.' 

" '  But  it  can,  it  must  make  no  difference,'  was  the  reply. 
'  Would  I  not  just  as  proudly  call  you  my  wife,  in  the  face  of 
the  whole  world,  even  if  all  knew  your  unhappy  history  ?  I 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  327 

would,  Helen,  and  I  cannot  allow  your  scruples ;  I  will  not 
allow  them  to  interrupt  our  happiness.' 

"  '  Oh,  you  don't  know  me,'  said  Helen,  very  seriously.  '  1 
am  alive,  in  every  nerve,  to  the  infamy  that  rests  upon  my 
name ;  and  the  mere  thought  that  you  ever  could  be  re 
proached  with  it  would  be  like  an  undying  worm  at  my  heart. 
The  race  of  a  murderer  must  not  be  perpetuated.  Let  me  fill 
up  the  last  grave ;  for  that  were  better,  far,  than  to  transmit 
the  demon-blood  to  a  generation  bearing  your  beloved  name. 
Charles,  entreat  me  not.  I  will  not  stay  to  hear  you ;'  and 
before  he  could  reply,  she  escaped  into  the  house,  ,and  with 
drew  immediately  to  her  chamber. 

"  I  did  not  close  my  eyes  to  sleep  that  night,  but  lay  medita- 
ing  arguments  with  which  to  combat  poor  Helen's  scruples, 
and  induce  her  to  marry  one  who  was  so  true  and  generous 
in  his  love  as  to  be  willing  to  brave  all  shame  for  her  dear 
sake.  I  arose  very  early,  and  walked  into  the  burying- 
ground,  for  I  had  a  grave  to  dig  that  morning. 

"  '  Business  comes  in  fast  now-a-days,  does  n't  it  ?'  said  an 
old  neighbor,  who  stopped  by  the  gate,  as  he  was  driving  his 
cattle  past.  '  Rather  afflicting  that  affair  that  happened  last 
night.' 

"  'What  was  it  ?'  I  asked.  '  Oh,  you  have  n't  heard  then ! 
Why,  young  'Squire  Warrener  is  dead !  Dropped  off  in  a 
fit,  they  suppose,  for  they  found  him  dead  on  the  floor  of  his 
room,  and  no  signs  of  poison,  or  murder.' 

"  It  was  too  true.  Poor  Charles  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the 
violent  emotion  Helen's  narrative  and  her  fixed  resolution 
had  excited.  The  physicians  opened  his  chest,  and  found 
that  his  heart  was  ruptured !  They  never  knew  the  cause, 
though  they  attributed  it  to  the  excitement  of  a  pending  trial, 
in  which  he  was  at  that  time  deeply  engaged." 

"And  Helen?" 

"  Oh,  it  is  needless  to  say,  she  never  rose  from  the  prostra 
tion  his  sudden  fate  occasioned.  '  I,  too,  am  a  murderer ! '  she 
would  often  exclaim,  in  a  tone  of  bitter  self-reproach ;  and 
the  morning  before  she  died,  she  called  me  to  her  bedside, 
and  requested  me  to  dig  her  grave  at  the  foot  of  that  large 


328  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

elm,  standing  in  the  stream  that  runs  through  the  church 
yard.  '  It  is  of  little  consequence,'  she  said ;  '  but  as  my  lot 
in  life  has  been  an  isolated  one,  I  would  also  wish  my  narrow 
bed  to  be  somewhat  apart  from  the  crowd.'  And  there  she 
lies  to  this  day,  poor  girl,  unless  the  worms  have  eaten  her." 

"  Her  dust  is  there,  Uncle  Moses,  but  she  is  in  that  bright 
and  blessed  country  where  there  are  no  murderers.  Poor 
Helen !  she  was  too  sensitive." 

"  The  iniquity  of  the  father  was  visited  upon  the  child 
with  a  fearful  completeness.  Why  is  it  that  the  innocent 
must  suffer  so  intensely  for  the  deeds  of  the  guilty  ? 

"  Oh  we  have  need  of  patient  faith  below, 
To  clear  away  the  mysteries  of  such  woe  ? " 

"  And  yet,  were  it  not  for  these  '  mysteries,'  how  could  our 
faith  be  proved  ?  Depend  upon  it,  Uncle  Moses,  they  will  all 
be  as  clear  as  noon-day  to  our  immortal  visions  ;  and  till  then 
we  must  content  ourselves  to 

"  Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 

To  suffer  and  be  strong ! " 
1842. 

HOUR  NINTH.  —  Did  you  ever  know,  Lottie,  what  it  is  to 
love  "  a  tree  or  flower  "  (as  Moore  has  it)  with  a  peculiar  ten 
derness,  not  for  its  own  beauty  merely,  but  because  it  is 
"  linked  to  names  you  love  ?"  It  may  be  but  a  scraggy  and 
scrawny  shrub,  yet  to  the  heart  it  is  dear  and  beautiful  for 
memory's  sake.  There  are  many  such  to  which  I  shall  lead 
you  some  idle  summer  day. 

On  the  brow  of  the  hill  is  an  old  crooked  tree, 
A  favorite  seat  for  my  friends  and  me  ; 

and  under  the  shadow  of  its  white  blossoms  and  green  leaves, 
I  will  some  bright  morning  point  out  to  you  all  the  kingdoms 
of  my  heart.  No,  not  all,  Lottie ;  for  some  lie  beyond  the 
horizon,  on  the  borders  of  beautiful  streams;  and  the  bright 
est  and  dearest  is  beyond  ken,  seen  only  by  the  clairvoyance 
of  a  Christian's  faith.  I  will  show  you  "  the  house  where  I 
was  born,"  half-hid  by  the  tall  elms  that  surround  it ;  and  the 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  329 

school-house  on  the  plain,  where,  for  ten  dream-like  years  of 
thoughtless  life,  I  sat  through  winter  day  and  summer  day  on 
the  hard  plank  seat,  tasting  all  kinds  of  ordinary  knowledge, 
from  the  first  rudiments  of  orthography  up  to  the  sublime  lore 
of  planets  and  stars  ;  and  the  humble  church  where  my  heart 
first  knelt  to  drink  of  the  immortal  springs  whose  waters  can 
alone  satisfy  forever,  and  where  it  still  receives  gradual  acces 
sions  of  strength  and  faith  from  the  pure  fount  of  Divine 
Truth. 

I  can  show  you,  too,  the  roof-tree, — a  somewhat  slender 
and  thrifty  elm,  which  could  not,  I  fancy,  have  towered  above 
the  homestead  long  enough  ago  to  have  sheltered  the  earliest 
nestlings  of  the  flock,  but  whose  juvenility  transcends  the 
longest  memory  of  your  not  very  antiquated  friend.  There 
is  a  deal  of  poetry  in  the  roof-tree,  Lottie,  —  a  poetry  that 
touches  the  universal  heart.  How  popular  that  simple  lay  of 
Gen.  Morris'  has  become  !  and  how  many  a  greater  and  lesser 
poet  has  struck  the  lyre  to  a  similar  theme  !  The  last  Repos 
itory  has  a  pretty  poem  from  Mrs.  Spooner,  which  everybody 
who  has  watched  the  robins  building  on  the  roof-tree,  or  sat 
in  its  shadow  to  read  a  favorite  tale,  can  properly  appreciate. 
And  why  should  we  not  cherish  these  benefactors  of  our  child 
hood,  that  link  its  golden  hours  with  the  more  troubled  sea 
sons  of  maturer  life  ?  We  cannot  revivify  the  past,  and  make 
our  by-gone  days  pass  over  our  heads  again  in  their  olden 
beauty  ;  but  we  can  use  the  Egyptian  art  of  embalming  what 
is  dead,  and,  more  fortunate  than  they,  can  keep  the  spirit  of 
the  past  alive,  when  its  form  and  outward  glory  is  vanished 
forever. 

Memory  has  certainly  its  pleasures,  and  it  has  as  surely  its 
pains.  Some  hearts,  dear  Lottie,  are  smitten  by  an  early 
blight  that  tinges  the  very  latest  hour  of  a  long  life  with 
regret ;  and  some  live  to  three  score  years  and  ten  without 
being  doomed  to  look  back  upon  any  crushing  sorrow,  or  any 
fiery  ordeal  that  seared  them  as  they  passed.  But  very  few 
are  there,  however,  who  pass  the  mid-day  of  life,  and  find 
much  of  its  morning  brightness  left.  O  my  friend !  how  early 
does  it  behoove  us  to  find  some  strength  that  shall  not  fail  us 
28* 


330  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

through  all  life's  seasons  of  weakness !  What  shall  we  do,  if 
we  lose  friends,  health,  and  earthly  hope,  unless  we  have  some 
place  of  refuge  in  the  love  of  God  ?  Strong,  indeed,  must 
we  build  our  faith  to  withstand  the  assaults  of  a  whole  life's 
sorrows  ;  yet,  by  pious  effort,  we  seldom  fail  to  acquire  that 
true  and  abiding  confidence  in  God  which  will  sustain  us 
under  any  burden  of  affliction ;  and  surely,  you  know,  Lottie, 
how  much  the  acquisition  is  worth. 

I  sat  down  to  gossip  with  you,  and  I  thought  my  heart  was 
full  of  bubbles  that  would  effervesce,  and  run  over  like  a  sum 
mer  fountain ;  but  unaccountably  my  theme  has  made  me 
sad,  and  I  love  you  too  well  to  make  you  a  participator  in  my 
lachrymose  meditations.  So  farewell !  When  you  come 
again,  charm  me  into  a  merry  mood. 

1843. 

HOUR  TENTH.  —  This  is  a  most  bewilderingly  beautiful  day, 
Louise.  Let  us  up  to  the  summit  of  the  hill,  where  we  can 
be  above,  yet  not  shut  out  from,  the  busy  world  around.  1 
have  no  sympathy  with  the  life  of  a  recluse.  If  I  were  the 
most  religious  person  in  the  world,  I  would  not  be  a  nun.  I 
believe  with  Franklin,  that  the  most  acceptable  service  we  can 
render  God  is  to  do  good  to  our  fellow  beings  ;  and  how  can 
we  do  them  good,  to  any  great  extent,  unless  we  mingle  with 
them,  and  share  with  their  pursuits  ?  I  never  could  see  the 
superior  piety  of  those  persons  who  devote  their  whole,  or 
indeed  the  greater  portion  of  their  time,  to  self-examination 
and  self-improvement.  It  is  true,  no  higher  duty  exists  than 
to  make  ourselves  perfect ;  but  how  can  this  duty  be  accom 
plished  so  long  as  we  devote  ourselves  entirely  to  selfish  ends  ? 
entirely  to  our  own  mental  and  moral  refinement  ? 

It  is  my  creed,  Louise  —  would  to  God  I  more  fully  prac 
tised  it  in  my  daily  life  !  —  that  the  very  highest  responsibility 
of  our  being  is  to  make  those  in  the  sphere  of  our  influence 
happy.  The  question  we  ought  to  consider,  when  reflecting 
on  the  result  of  any  action,  is  not,  "  Shall  I  be  rewarded  for 
it  ?  "  —  but,  "  Will  it  be  useful  to  any  human  being  ?  " 

That  we  owe  ourselves  certain  duties,  I  am  aware.     There 


PROSE   SELECTIONS.  331 

are  practical  virtues,  whose  performance  extends  scarcely 
beyond  our  own  individual  knowledge  and  benefit.  We  owe 
it  to  ourselves  to  be  temperate,  cleanly,  and  in  every  respect 
orderly ;  to  be  well-instructed  in  religious  faith,  and  in  scien 
tific  and  historic  knowledge.  Still,  all  these  virtues  and 
acquirements  have  an  indirect  bearing  upon  the  happiness  of 
those  around  us.  We  are  so  connected,  every  individual  of 
us,  with  the  great  mass  of  human  life  in  the  world,  that  even 
our  personal  habits  do  more  or  less  affect  the  general  comfort 
and  tranquillity  of  those  with  whom  we  mingle. 

But  I  am  prosing  —  and  here  we  are  now,  on  the  very  brow 
of  this  high  hill.  Let  us  have  a  seat  on  this  crooked  apple- 
tree.  Years  ago,  Louise,  a  friend  sat  with  me  here,  and  I  can 
show  you  now  the  spot  where  he  cut  from  its  bark  a  fragment 
of  green,  velvety  moss.  "  If  I  go  over  the  seas  to  other  lands," 
said  he,  "  I  will  look  upon  this  little  relic  there,  and  think  of 
you."  I  should  like  to  know  if  he  is  looking  on  it  now,  think 
ing  of  me.  A  blessing  on  him,  though  the  waters  be  between 
us.  Would  there  were  in  this  world  no  less  faithful  friends 
than  he ! 

Look  up,  Louise,  into  the  deep  blue  sky  !  What  a  mystery 
is  day,  that  shrouds  from  our  gaze  the  myriad  worlds  that  are 
forever  moving  through  that  stupendous  arch !  Day  was 
made  for  our  earth,  to  show  us  the  minute  loveliness  spread 
everywhere  upon  its  bosom;  Night,  for  the  million-sphered 
universe ;  for  the  display  of  suns  and  worlds  a  hundred-fold 
more  magnificent  and  glorious  than  our  own  !  Day  is  for  the 
beauty  of  the  rose,  for  the  song  of  the  lark  ;  Night  comes 

"  With  every  star, 

Making  the  streams  that  in  their  noonday  track 
Give  but  the  moss,  the  reed,  the  lily  back, 
Mirrors  of  worlds  afar!  " 

Is  there  not,  to  you,  something  almost  terrific  in  the  sublim 
ity  of  astronomic  truths  ?  I  confess,  limited  as  is  my  knowledge 
of  that  Olympic  science,  I  am  thrilled  and  awed  to  the  soul  by 
the  novelty  and  magnitude  of  its  discoveries.  I  could  almost 
wish,  sometimes,  that  this  universe  were  less  stupendous ; 
that  its  creation  and  operations  were  not  so  deeply  veiled  from 


332  FEOSE    SELECTIONS. 

human  investigation.  How  natural  was  that  ejaculation  of 
the  Psalmist  —  "When  I  consider  thy  heavens,  the  work  of 
thy  fingers  ;  the  moon  and  stars  which  thou  hast  made  ;  what 
is  man  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him  ?  and  the  son  of  man  that 
thou  visitest  him  ?  " 

1843.  _ 

HOUR  ELEVENTH. — Well,  dear  Lottie,  I  am  in  a  merry  mood 
once  more  —  and  who  would  not  be,  at  the  sight  of  that  laugh 
ing  blue  eye,  peeping  out  from  its  bonnet  of  straw  ?  And  such 
a  day,  too !  Why,  Lottie,  a  very  mule  might  be  pardoned  for 
a  frisk  or  two  in  a  sunshine  so  exhilarating. 

Will  you  go  a  bird's-nesting  ?  Not  a  foraging  the  poor 
dear  things,  but  just  to  take  a  peep  at  the  tiny  blue  eggs,  or 
drop  a  few  crumbs  into  the  gaping  mouths  of  the  fledglings. 
No,  I  see  you  have  your  heart  set  upon  a  dinner  of  minims 
and  chubs.  But  what  will  you  do  for  fishing-tackle  ?  Here 
is  my  work-box —  help  yourself  to  pins  and  thread  —  and  down 
by  the  brookside  we  can  find  an  abundance  of  willow-rods. 
You  laugh,  but  I  assure  you  it  is  all  the  angling  apparatus  I 
ever  use. 

Pray  don't  stay  inhaling  the  very  life  out  of  those  poor 
violets,  if  it  is  three  long  years  since  one  has  met  your  eye. 
I  am  impatient  to  show  you  my  gipseying  haunts.  There ! 
is  n't  this  the  coziest  bit  of  an  island  you  ever  saw  ?  And  look 
above  !  What  a  wealth  of  clematis  has  hung  itself  upon  every 
bough  of  this  young  elm !  Do  you  think  the  whole  islet  is 
broad  enough  for  us  to  sit  upon  ?  Let  us  try. 

Are  you  a  Mesmerizer  ?  One  would  suspect  so,  from  the 
intensity  with  which  you  have  been  gazing  at  that  poor 
dragon-fly  for  these  last  ten  minutes.  His  violet-colored  body 
may  possess  some  magnetic  properties,  for  aught  I  know  — 
and  look  at  his  eyes !  Those  round,  staring,  motionless  orbs 
are,  for  all  the  world,  a  perfect  miniature  of  Dr.  O.'s,  who  has 
so  much  of  the  nervo-fluid,  it  is  thought  he  might  put  the 
aurora-borealis  to  sleep,  were  he  to  gaze  at  it. 

"  Oh  my  ! "  as  our  friend  Mr.  T.  says  —  "what  a  shoal  of 
the  tiniest  little  fish !  Do  see  them,  how  they  dart  away  at 
the  sound  of  my  voice,  and  hide  themselves  in  the  shadow  of 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

those  grape-leaves.  When  they  passed  through  that  streak 
of  sunshine,  they  looked  like  so  many  amphibious  jewels, 
'  gone  in  a-swimming.' "  Oh  Lottie !  what  a  sin  it  would  be 
to  eat  such  pretty  creatures  as  those !  Of  how  many  hours  of 
fine  frolic  in  these  little  spearmint-scented  nooks  and  coves  we 
should  thus  deprive  them  —  we,  who,  ourselves,  love  frolic  so 
well !  And  all  to  gratify  a  momentary  whim  of  appetite.  I 
acknowledge  there  is  a  mystery  about  this  principle  of  life 
which  consecrates,  and  makes  it  sacred  in  my  eyes.  It  is 
what  we  all  can  take  away,  but  none  of  us  can  restore ;  and  it 
is  not  without  hesitation  that  I  destroy  the  life  of  a  troublesome 
and  insignificant  insect.  Why  should  I  deprive  it  of  an  exist 
ence  given  to  it  by  God  —  and  given,  we  may  well  believe,  for 
purposes  of  use  and  enjoyment  ?  If  He  deemed  it  worthy  of 
creation,  ought  not  I,  at  least,  to  regard  it  as  deserving  preser 
vation  ? 

Oh,  what  a  bright  little  cluster  of  cowslips  !  Do  you  like 
them,  dear  ?  They  are  becoming  to  your  dark  locks  —  let  me 
interweave  them.  Mary  says  they  are  a  coarse  looking  flower, 
and  from  having  frequently  seen  them  brought  upon  the  table 
as  an  edible,  they  are  not  altogether  poetically  associated  in 
the  mind  with  salt  pork  and  beef.  Despite  this  misfortune, 
however,  they  are  rather  a  favorite  flower ;  and  I  never  see 
their  golden  clusters  and  rich  green  leaves  growing  upon  the 
water's  brink,  without  feeling  a  fresh  glow  overspread  my 
innermost  heart. 

Look  —  do  look!  See  that  green-coated,  amphibious  gen 
tleman,  with  his  hand  resting  gracefully  upon  that  mossy 
stone,  and  his  legs  dangling  in  the  water.  He  is  the  trouba 
dour,  I  take  it,  who  gives  us  our  nightly  serenades.  Pray,  my 
dear  Sir  Frog,  don't  fix  those  bright  eyes  of  yours  so  insinu 
atingly  upon  my  friend  Lottie.  She  loves  .your  serenades 
much  better  than  she  loves  you.  But  what  can  the  fellow 
mean,  hanging  so  long  upon  that  stone,  gazing  at  us  poor, 
unoffending  demoiselles  ?  You  know  he  was  Galvani's  first 
subject  —  who  knows  but  what  his  regard  for  science  has 
induced  him  to  offer  himself  as  a  subject  for  Mesmeric  experi 
ments  ?  Try  him,  Lottie. 


334  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

No  —  he  is  no  martyr.  Away  he  paddles  down  the  bright 
current,  till  finally  he  is  lost  to  our  eyes.  Farewell,  gallant 
troubadour !  your  music  will  be  welcome  in  our  hours  of  slum 
ber,  but  Lottie  and  I  regard  you  as  de  trop  in  our  sylvan  tete- 
a-tete. 

While  you  are  braiding  that  wreath  of  violets,  I  will  read 
you  a  little  hymn  I  wrote  this  morning,  to  be  sung  in  the  tune 
—  "Near  the  lake,  where  droops  the  willow." 

Lord  of  midnight  and  of  morning, 

Hail,  hail  to  Thee  ! 
Now  the  golden  light  is  dawning 

O'er  rill  and  tree. 

Soft  the  dew  rests  on  the  roses, 

Fragrant  the  air ; 
Every  flower  some  sweet  discloses, 

Balmy  and  rare. 

Nature  worships  at  her  altars  — 

So,  too,  should  we ; 
Base,  indeed,  the  heart  that  falters 

In  loving  Thee. 

Lord  of  Love,  send  down  thy  blessing 

On  us,  below ; 
Let  each  heart,  its  wants  confessing, 

With  fervor  glow. 

None  so  good  as  Thou,  Jehovah! 

Be  Thou  obeyed ; 
For  Thy  mercy  spreadeth  over 

All  Thou  hast  made ! 

E'en  the  humblest,  lowliest  creature, 

Lives  by  Thy  care  ; 
Why  should  we,  of  human  nature, 

E'er,  then,  despair? 

Hark !  can  that  be  the  dinner-bell  —  so  soon  ?  Oh  Lottie ! 
where  are  your  minims  ?  If  the  good  keepers-at-home  have 
not  been  more  provident  than  we  wild  gadders-abroad,  I  fear 
me  we  must  be  content  to  make  our  repast  of  cowslips  and 
water-cresses. 

1843. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  335 

HOUR  TWELFTH.  —  It  is  the  first  of  May,  —  a  day  memor 
able  in  old  England  for  its  ancient  sports  around  the  flower- 
wreathed  pole  ;  for  its  dances  and  shoutings  upon  the  village- 
green  ;  and  for  a  multitude  of  little  village  romances,  never 
reenacted  in  these  days  of  formal  and  artificial  life,  but  which 
will  live  in  the  memories  of  ballad-readers,  as  one  of  the  very 
loveliest  features  in  the  "  acted  poetry  "  of  by-gone  days. 

It  is  the  first  of  May,  —  and  a  furious  eastern  storm,  which 
has  poured  down  its  drenching  floods  through  the  whole  past 
night,  still  roars  and  sweeps  through  the  upper  air,  like  an 
angry  god  come  forth  to  battle.  No  sweet  May-sports  to-day 
—  no,  not  even  the  gathering  of  a  green  stick  to  deposit  in 
prophetic  attitude  over  the  door,  —  an  interpreter  of  that  great 
mystery  in  a  young  maiden's  future  destiny,  namely,  "Who 
will  my  husband  be  ?  " 

Yet  I  do  not  regret  it.  I  love  a  rainy  day,  occasionally. 
It  throws  one  so  much  inward  for  sources  of  mental  happiness, 
and  seems,  in  a  great  measure,  to  shut  out  the  gairishness  and 
strife  of  the  big  world.  Yes,  even  this  first  day  of  May,  it  is 
pleasant  to  sit  at  the  chimney-corner  with  a  blazing  fire  at 
one's  feet,  and  ply  the  busy  needle,  or  delve  deep  into  the  rich 
ore  of  a  new  and  thought-suggestive  book. 

This  plying  the  needle,  —  there  is  real  enthusiasm  and 
pleasure  in  it,  when  one  is  in  the  mood.  To  see  the  shape 
less  fabric  gradually  assuming  form  and  character  beneath  the 
operations  of  the  fingers ;  to  call  into  requisition  one's  taste 
and  skill,  to  fashion  a  garb  of  comfort  and  beauty,  for  our 
selves  or  some  one  dear  to  us  ;  yea,  even  the  very  exercise  of 
sewing  is  exhilarating,  when  the  heart  is  in  the  work. 

And  reading,  too.  No  time  like  a  rainy  day  for  close  medi 
tative  reading.  The  birds  are  not  forever  twittering  in  your 
ears  on  such  a  day,  charming  you  away  from  all  the  music  of 
written  thought ;  neither  are  the  sunbeams  stealing  through 
your  lattice,  tempting  you  to  an  idle  saunter  in  the  woods ; 
but  the  rain,  dashing  in  torrents  upon  the  window-pane,  serves 
as  a  lively  "  dancing-tune,"  to  set  one's  ideas  in  rapid  motion. 

1843. 


336  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

HOUR  THIRTEENTH.  —  My  gossiping  soliloquy  was  disturbed 
by  a  sudden  gleam  of  sunshine,  darting  through  the  dense 
clouds  that  a  westerly  breeze  sent  lumbering  off  over  the  hori 
zon,  and  falling  upon  a  red  stripe  in  the  carpet  at  my  feet. 
An  hour  or  two  later,  and  all  above  was  blue  sky,  with  now  and 
then  a  soft  fleecy  cloud  resting  over  the  tops  of  the  woodlands. 

Some  friends  called,  —  a  walk  was  proposed,  —  so  adieu  to 
books  and  needle-work,  till  another  rainy  day,  said  we,  leaving 
them  scattered  upon  the  sofa,  in  that  elegant  disarray  common 
to  those  whose  impatient  impulses  are  forever  deaf  to  the 
cries  of  "  order !  order ! "  from  the  phrenological  monitor  in  the 
temple. 

The  wood-path  through  which  we  traced  our  way  had  lost 
none  of  its  olden  fascinations,  save  that  it  now  wanted  a  por 
tion  of  its  midsummer  foliage,  and  bright  fragrant  flowers. 
But  there  were  rich,  beautiful  mosses,  soft  as  velvet,  and 
green  as  —  what  ?  Indeed,  there  is  nothing  on  earth  so  green  ! 
And  a  few,  very  few,  flowers  were  found,  hidden  beneath  the 
last  year's  leaves,  —  and  the  May-sticks  were  gathered,  just 
budding,  like  Aaron's  rod,  —  and  they  might  also,  perhaps,  be 
likened  to  the  diviner's  rod,  since  they  were  about  to  reveal 
to  us  the  buried  riches  of  our  future  days.  (And  yet,  it  must 
be  confessed,  husbands  and  wives  are  not  always  treasures.) 

Our  party  consisted  of  eight  ladies,  and  one  beau,  who  had 
arrived  at  the  great  antiquity  of  three  years  !  May-day,  alas  ! 
is  no  longer  a  general  holiday  ;  and  our  village  swains,  remark 
able  rather  for  their  industry  than  their  gallantry,  perhaps 
found  more  important  occupations  to  claim  their  time  than 
gadding  in  the  woods  for  flowers.  Yet  it  was  a  pleasant  walk, 
nevertheless,  —  we  all  said  it  was  a  pleasant  walk  ;  and  so, 
dear  friends,  believe  me,  notwithstanding  a  rainy  forenoon, 
and  a  beauless  party  in  the  afternoon,  May-day  was  passed 
as  happily  in  our  quiet  village  as  perhaps  in  any  other  spot 
on  our  globe.  Good  bye  ! 

1943. 

Hotra  FOURTEENTH. — Rap,  rap !  at  the  kitchen  door.  "  Gen 
tleman  of  the  house  in  ?  "  —  Enter  —  a  slight,  girl-faced  young 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

fellow,  with  a  mahogany  frame  in  his  hand.  "Ah!  good 
evening,  sir ;  —  called  to  see  if  I  could  engage  your  hall,  sir, 
to  teach  a  writing-school  in  ?  Here  's  an  ornamental  specimen, 
sir.  It  represents  Napoleon  on  horseback  ;  there,  you  see,  is  a 
corner  of  his  cloak,  flying  in  the  wind;  there  is  his  cap;  and  see, 
there  are  the  feet  of  his  horse !  I  have  some  more  specimens 
I  could  show  you,  —  one  of  a  swan,  and  another  of  a  flock  of 
birds,  —  samples  of  penmanship,  you  know.  I  teach  writing 
on  a  different  plan  from  your  common  masters.  I  have  a  rule 
and  a  principle  for  everything;  — a  rule  for  the  upward  stroke 
and  a  rule  for  the  downward  stroke  of  the  pen ;  a  rule  for  join 
ing  the  two  sections  of  a  letter  together,  and  a  rule  for  shading 
each  letter  —  making  four  rules  for  every  letter.  Then,  I  have 
a  rule  for  holding  the  pen,  another  for  the  position  of  the  hand, 
and  another  still  for  the  position  of  the  arm.  I  also  use  a 
black-board,  upon  which  I  put  every  letter  together,  and  take 
it  to  pieces  again,  so  that  the  smallest  scholar  can  understand 
what  it  is  made  of.  In  short,  sir,  I  have  a  rule  and  a  principle 
for  everything." 

Rap,  rap,  rap  !  at  the  front  door.  In  rushes  a  tall  chap,  with 
a  huge  portfolio  under  his  arm.  "  Can't  I  sell  the  ladies  some 
fine  pictures  ?  I  have  a  great  variety,  —  will  sell  them  to  you 
very  cheap,  and  put  them  in  frames,  too,  for  half  a  dollar  ! " 
Here  he  displayed,  with  the  complacent  air  of  a  virtuoso 
exhibiting  reed  gems,  a  gaudy  collection  of  colored  prints  — 
Helens,  and  Amandas,  and  Josephines,  in  yellow  gowns  and  red 
pinafores  ;  curly-headed  boys,  holding  up  bunches  of  grapes, 
to  tempt  orange-colored  dogs  ;  parting -scenes,  in  which  a  sol 
dier-lover,  in  blue  coat  and  white  pants,  seems  about  to  kiss  a 
yellow-robed  damsel,  the  ruby  of  whose  lip,  by  some  unfortu 
nate  stroke  of  the  artist's  brush,  is  melting  and  oozing  itself 
down  upon  the  lily  beauty  of  her  chin !  Then,  there  were 
"  mourning-pieces,"  in  which  there  was  a  weeping-willow 
drooping  over  the  top  of  a  white  urn,  beside  which  stood  a  fat 
lady  in  black,  with  a  cambric  handkerchief  at  one  eye,  mak 
ing  laborious  efforts  to  weep,  if  one  might  judge  from  the 
large  pear-shaped  masses  of  liquid  that  clung  to  her  beet- 
hued  cheeks.  There  was  a  "  family-scene,"  too,  in  which  the 
29 


338  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

"papa,"  with  a  parson-like  rigidity  of  limb,  sat  bolt  upright, 
reading  from  Holy  Writ,  while  "  mamma,"  in  the  stereotype 
yellow  gown,  was  seated  at  the  fireside,  holding  a  baby  in  a 
bright  red  gown,  with  an  older  one,  in  blue  petticoats,  "cud 
dled  down  "  at  her  feet. 

Now,  we  "  ladies,"  not  being  patronesses  of  the  fine  arts, 
were  unable  to  discover  the  merits  of  these  "  fine  pictures," 
and  scarcely  turned  our  eyes  toward  them,  all  the  while  the 
amateur  was  expatiating  upon  their  manifold  beauties ;  where 
upon  he  grew  justly  indignant  at  our  apathy,  and,  upon  our 
positively  assuring  him  we  could  not  purchase,  made  a  very 
precipitate  retreat,  bearing  forth  his  treasures  to  more  enlight 
ened  tastes  and  liberal  purses. 

But  we  were  not  fated  long  to  enjoy  our  quiet.  Another 
ponderous  knock  soon  announced  a  recruit  to  the  list  of  our 
peace-disturbers.  "  Like  to  subscribe  for  a  monthly,  to-day, 
ma'am  ?  Anything  you  wish,  ma'am,  —  Graham's,  Godey's, 
Ladies'  Companion,  Boston  Miscellany,  —  all  the  first-rate 
magazines,  —  fashion-plates,  music,  engravings,  tales,  poetry, 
&c.  &c.,  by  the  first  writers  in  the  country.  No  lady  pretends 
to  be  without  one  or  more  of  these  magazines.  No  lady  can 
be  a  lady  without  them.  Here  's  where  they  come  to  consult 
the  fashions ;  here 's  where  they  turn  for  their  new  music  ; 
here  's  where  they  enrich  their  minds  with  the  current  litera 
ture  of  the  age.  Better  make  a  selection,  ma'am  !" 

But  we  were  as  apathetic  to  the  attractions  of  the  monthlies 
as  we  had  been  previously  to  those  of  the  fine  pictures,  and 
persisted  in  a  very  resolute  denial  of  our  patronage,  which 
proved  us,  of  course,  to  be  no  ladies ! 

These  are  but  a  few  samples  of  the  daily,  and  almost  hour 
ly,  annoyances  to  which  honest  country  people  are  subject, 
from  vagrant  speculators  upon  their  credulity  and  good-nature. 
They  tease,  and  torment,  and  weary  you  out  of  all  patience 
and  common  courtesy.  They  offer  you  things  you  do  not 
want,  and  cannot  afford ;  they  urge  them  upon  you,  until  their 
solicitations  become  an  insult,  and  then,  finding  you  will  not 
be  driven  to  give  them  your  money,  depart  from  your  door 
with  a  sneer,  and  oftentimes  with  an  inward  curse. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  339 

But  we  sometimes  have  another  class  of  wanderers.  A  few 
evenings  since,  a  tall,  burly-headed  foreigner  called,  and  begged 
a  lodging.  The  night  before,  he  said,  he  lay  upon  the  "  cold 
groond,"  and  slept  very  little.  He  had  followed  Bonaparte 
to  Moscow,  and  been  amid  "  the  cold  snoows "  there,  and 
he  had  been  "  three  years  at  Waterloo ;"  but,  in  all  his  cam 
paigns,  had  never  suffered  so  much  as  in  travelling  the  last 
six  weeks  in  Massachusetts,  in  search  of  employment.  Work, 
work,  was  what  he  wanted,  and  could  not  find ;  and  the  dis 
consolate  look  with  which  he  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
and  wished  himself  back  to  France,  proved  that  he  was  weary 
in  heart  as  well  as  in  frame.  He  was  a  different  man  in  the 
morning,  as  I  saw  him  marching  off  with  a  light  step,  and  a 
smile  of  cheerfulness  on  his  face ;  such  an  invigorating  and 
hope-inspiring  influence  has  a  long  night's  rest,  followed  by  a 
bright  spring  morning. 

This  morning  a  Virginia  negro  called.  "  De  black  folks  do 
de  white-washing  and  de  house-cleaning  for  de  white  folks  — 
can't  Aaron  do  some  for  you,  dear  lady  ?  And  dese  are  your 
daughters,  are  dey  ?  Well,  dey  are  bery  pleasant-looking 
girls,  and  look  bery  much  like  de  mudder  !  Why,  deir  hair 
is  bery  black,  —  blacker  dan  de  Aaron's,  —  for  I  be  a  kinder 
red-top,  and  my  grandfadder,  who  come  from  Africa,  hab  de 
red  wool ! " 

Aaron  was  a  comical  fellow.  I  almost  regretted  that  the 
white-washing  and  house-cleaning  were  done  for  the  season, 
for  he  was  the  best  specimen  of  a  southern  negro  I  had  ever 
met ;  and  it  was  amusing  to  listen  to  his  familiar  chat.  He 
left  the  house,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  saw  him  at  a  neigh 
bor's  door,  inquiring  of  the  lady  there  if  she  had  any  "  little 
pick-a-ninnies." 

If  I  had  the  smallest  talent  for  humorous  description,  there 
are  a  hundred  incidents  occurring  in  our  little  village  which 
would  be  worth  relating.  But  my  mirthfulness  is  somewhat 
like  strong  beer,  very  effervescent  in  itself,  but  very  stupefying 
in  its  influence  upon  others  ;  and  it  is  a  little  dampening  to 
one's  vanity  to  make  a  vehement  effort  to  describe  a  scene  at 
whose  exhibition  one  has  laughed  heartily,  and  to  find  that 


340  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

its  only  effect  upon  the  listener  is  to  produce  a  dismal  yawn  ! 
Dear  me  !     How  is  the  way  to  say  funny  things  ? 
1843. 


HOUR  FIFTEENTH.  —  I  can  no  longer  gossip  of  the  trees,  and 
bird,  and  brooks;  alas!  they  are  far  distant,  and  only  the 
glare  of  red  walls  and  the  hum  of  busy  multitudes  can  be  seen 
or  heard  around  me.  Yet  not  altogether  uninteresting  is  the 
circumscribed  view  beneath  my  window.  I  could  talk  to  you 
of  it  for  hours,  it  is  so  full  of  humanity. 

Directly  in  front,  I  have  the  variegated  pole  and  blue  paper 
packages  indicative  of  a  barber  —  in  this  instance,  a  genteel 
colored  fellow,  with  black  glossy  curls,  that  speak  volumes  in 
favor  of  his  skill,  and  whole  mammoth  sheets  in  praise  of  his 
comeliness.  The  most  I  have  been  able  to  learn  of  him  dur 
ing  our  six  weeks'  acquaintance  —  an  acquaintance  carried  on 
by  means  of  sundry  interchanges  of  glances  during  those  hours 
when  I  sit  here  with  my  needle  or  my  pen  —  can  be  told  in 
few  words.  He  is  polite  when  occasion  requires,  and  like 
most  of  his  race,  good-natured  and  social ;  but  molest  him  in 
any  way,  and  he  is  as  pugilistic  as  a  bear.  Last  Sabbath 
morning  I  was  aroused  by  a  disturbance  in  the  street.  I 
arose,  and  looking  out  of  my  window,  saw  my  curly-haired 
neighbor  in  close  combat  with  a  drunken  sailor.  The  sailor, 
it  seems,  had  stolen  his  brush  and  comb,  and  in  return  was 
helped  to  a  bed  in  the  gutter.  My  neighbor's  attitude  was 
sublimely  gladiatorial,  as  he  stood  there  awaiting  the  renewal 
of  the  tar's  assaults ;  but  the  tar,  poor  fellow !  was  in  a  state 
of  most  helpless  inebriation ;  and  the  barber's  victory,  though 
complete,  was  without  glory. 

A  little  to  the  left  oblique  I  have  the  perspective  of  a  whole 
street,  dignified  by  the  appellation  of  Place.  It  is  a  quiet  but 
not  unnoticeable  spot,  for  events  of  interest  are  daily  transpir 
ing  Avithin  it.  I  hear,  at  this  moment,  the  harsh  but  not 
unpleasant  notes  of  the  gipsy  ballad-singer.  See  her  stand 
ing  before  the  door  of  that  brick  dwelling,  with  her  tambourine 
raised  in  the  air !  Her  attitude  and  general  appearance  are 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  341 

singularly  picturesque.  Her  straw  hat  with  its  plain  green 
ribbon  has  a  modest  look,  and  her  short  skirt  betrays  a  pretty 
little  plump  foot  and  ankle  that  would  charrn  a  connoisseur  of 
rustic  beauty.  Poor  girl !  she  is  a  vagabond  on  the  face  of  the 
earth ;  without  caste  among  her  own  sex,  and  subject  to  the 
tyranny  and  selfishness  of  the  other.  She  laughs  —  but  't  is  a 
hollow  and  joyless  laugh,  having  neither  freshness  nor  inno 
cence  in  its  broken  and  discordant  flow.  She  talks  —  but  not 
the  soft,  fervent  accents  of  pure  and  loving  womanhood. 
Something  gross  and  harrowing  to  the  ear  of  delicacy  falls 
from  those  lips,  on  which  the  dew  of  innocence  no  longer  rests. 
Poor  girl !  if  there  be  one  being  on  the  face  of  God's  earth 
who  deserves  the  commiseration  of  her  race,  it  is  she,  who,  like 
thee,  is  an  exile  from  the  Eden  of  pure  affections  and  an  inno 
cent  life.  Terrible,  beyond  the  power  of  imagination  to  con 
ceive,  must  be  a  life  like  thine,  so  shut  out  from  human  ten 
derness —  so  bound  down  in  the  most  menial  servitude  to  the 
animal,  yet  yearning  evermore  with  a  hopeless  agony  for  the 
paradise  of  the  spiritual !  Hapless  lot,  indeed !  And  is  it 
thy  fate,  or  thy  reward  ?  Wert  thou  nurtured  in  the  bowers 
of  virtue,  and  watched  over  by  a  pious  and  faithful  mother  ? 
or  wert  thou  the  offspring  of  guilt,  thrown,  in  thine  infant 
helplessness,  into  the  dens  of  profligacy  and  crime,  with  no 
voice  to  warn  thee  of  the  perils  around  and  before  thee  ? 
Who  knows,  save  God  ?  In  his  hands  I  leave  thee,  to  be 
judged  by  a  righteous  and  merciful  judgment. 

A  few  weeks  since,  a  hearse  was  in  that  street,  and  it  bore 
away  from  a  dwelling  the  chief  pride  and  glory  of  its  inmates. 
The  husband  and  father  is  gone.  Yonder  now  comes  the 
widow,  leading  a  little  rosebud  of  a  girl  by  the  hand,  and  lis 
tening  abstractedly,  but  with  a  half  smile  on  her  face,  to  her 
innocent  talk.  She  is  a  widow,  indeed.  Her  soul  is  exceed 
ing  sorrowful.  She  feels  exposed  and  helpless.  How  timidly 
she  moves  through  the  crowd !  Where  is  the  arm  on  which 
she  had  once  leaned  so  trustfully  ?  It  shall  never  support  her 
more  !  'T  is  a  fearful  state  —  this  lonely  widowhood  !  It 
comes  so  suddenly  after  the  sweet  dependence,  the  familiar 
companionship,  the  unreserved  trust,  of  connubial  love.  Mar- 


342  PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

riage  spoils  a  woman  for  solitude  and  for  individual  action. 
She  yields  herself  up  so  entirely  to  be  cared  for,  loved  and 
defended.  She  is  like  a  bird  that  has  its  nest  amid  bowers 
of  roses,  and  never  goes  abroad  to  brave  the  storm.  But  alas, 
when  the  shelter  is  removed  !  Alas,  when  the  rude  winds 
blow,  and  none  is  near  to  encourage  and  protect !  God  be 
with  and  bless  the  widow  —  for  she  is  a  widow  indeed  ! 

Just  around  the  curve  of  the  street,  in  a  little  alcove  formed 
by  the  door  of  a  public  building,  sits  a  poor  woman  with  a 
nursing  babe.  There  she  is,  from  eight  in  the  morning  till  the 
sun  reaches  the  meridian  and  throws  its  blaze  into  her  baby's 
face,  offering  to  passers-by  her  basket  of  apples  and  candy. 
Few  and  parsimonious  are  her  customers ;  yet  't  is  better  than 
starving,  even  those  few,  hard-earned  pennies.  Will  they  not 
buy  her  a  loaf  for  her  children's  supper  ?  ay,  even  purchase 
the  absolution  of  her  sins,  poor,  simple  creature  of  faith  that 
she  is !  My  thoughts  are  with  that  patient  mother  and  nurs 
ing  babe  many  times  in  the  busy  day ;  yes,  even  when  I  am 
gayest,  and  in  the  midst  of  most  uncongenial  scenes,  the 
image  of  that  poor  old  apple  woman  comes  gliding  into  my 
heart.  Why  is  she  there  ?  Does  she  come  to  reproach  me 
that  never,  often  as  I  have  passed  her  in  the  street,  and  looked 
at  her  with  deep  pity,  have  I  spoken  to  her  a  word  of  kind 
ness,  or  dropped  a  single  penny  in  her  hand  ?  Oh,  idle  feel 
ing  that  prompts  not  to  generous  action  !  Yet  there  are,  fur 
ther  down  the  street,  two  of  the  same  class,  with  whom  I 
often  stop  to  trade  and  chat  —  why  this  partiality?  Ah,  it  is 
because  they  invite  my  custom  by  eager  salutations ;  nay, 
even  quarrel  if  I  divide  my  coppers,  instead  of  giving  them  all 
to  either  one  ;  but  she,  meek  creature,  never  speaks,  scarcely 
does  she  lift  her  eyes,  but  sits  in  submissive  sorrow  and  mute 
entreaty,  hoping  what  she  dares  not  ask.  And  yet  I  pass  her 
idly  by  —  a  Levite  indeed  !  God  send  me  better  ways  ! 

A  little  further  along,  and  in  view  of  my  window,  gleams 
the  white  tent  of  the  menagerie.  All  around  it  and  up  and 
down  the  street,  stand  tables  of  refreshment,  beneath  little 
white  awnings  of  cloth.  Such  a  variety  of  commodities  to 
please  the  palate  !  Pies,  cakes,  ice-creams,  root-beer,  ginger- 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

pop ;  old  women  with  oranges,  young  girls  with  radishes,  Jittle 
boys  with  cherries  —  all  huddled  together  in  one  motley  crowd. 
And  the  medley  of  sounds ;  who  can  enumerate  half  the  dis 
cordant  notes  ?  Here  a  hand-organ,  and  there  a  barking  dog, 
from  one  an  oath,  from  another  a  jest,  and  from  the  third  a 
catch  or  two  of  song.  "Old  Dan  Tucker"  comes  in  for  his 
share  of  favor,  and  "  Lucy  Long "  takes  her  time  with  the 
rest.  Then  there  comes  a  fierce  growl  from  the  royal  Java 
tiger  within  the  tent ;  royal,  at  least,  in  his  physical  beauty 
and  ferocity.  The  notes  of  the  screaming  macaw  are  heard, 
mingled  with  the  laughter  of  the  boys,  and  the  screams  of  the 
peacock  in  the  public  garden  beyond.  Really,  there  is  no  end 
to  the  variety  of  Boston  scenery.  It  is  a  kaleidescope,  pre 
senting,  at  every  new  view,  human  nature  under  different 
combinations  and  in  different  forms,  yet  interesting  and  in 
structive  in  them  all.  Every  day  that  I  look  abroad,  I  learn 
something  new  of  my  race.  God  grant  that  I  may  increase  in 
love  even  more  rapidly  than  in  knowledge.  Should  we  hate 
the  world  because  it  is  wicked  ?  Oh,  no  !  let  us  rather  do  as 
God  does  —  love  it,  and  seek  to  save  it  from  its  sins.  It  is 
the  vestibule  of  His  great  temple,  in  which  we  must  all  put 
off"  the  soiled  sandals  of  a  carnal  pilgrimage,  ere  we  can  enter, 
with  clean  feet,  the  presence  of  the  Immaculate. 
1843. 


HOUR  SIXTEENTH. — I  would  talk  with  you  awhile  about  my 
old  friend,  Mrs.  Pratt.  She  has  lived  for  many  years,  that 
is,  ever  since  her  marriage,  in  the  black  house  upon  the  hill. 
You  have  noticed  it  often,  for  the  smooth  green  sward  that 
slopes  abruptly  from  its  very  base  down  to  the  village  road 
side,  and  for  the  multitude  of  dandelions  that  gem  the  door 
way,  and  for  the  patches  of  green  moss  upon  its  roof,  and, 
more  than  all,  for  the  four  majestic  old  elms,  whose  branches 
hang  down  till  they  almost  sweep  the  well-curb  at  the  door. 

How  many  a  delightful  afternoon  have  I  spent  in  that 
house,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  in  the  yard  and  orchard  that 
surround  it ;  for  they  were  no  visits  of  ceremony  that  I  paid 


344  PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

there,  and  the  Pratt  girls  never  expected  of  me  that  I  should 
sit  still  in  the  parlor,  in  the  usual  stupid  manner  of  "  spending 
an  afternoon."  No,  we  rambled  and  romped  to  our  hearts' 
content ;  climbed  the  cherry-trees  on  the  old  broken  ladder ; 
hunted  in  the  barn  for  hen's  eggs :  jumped  from  the  scaffold 
into  the  hay-mow;  had  a  caper  with  the  "bossies"  and  the 
kittens ;  in  short,  luxuriated  in  all  kinds  of  rustic  frolic,  with 
out  a  solitary  suspicion  that  we  were  doing  anything  unlady 
like  or  ungenteel. 

And  then  when  the  "  tea-time"  came  !  Such  a  tablefull  of 
luxuries !  The  first  course  usually  consisted  of  hot  cream- 
biscuits,  eaten  with  the  sweetest  new  butter,  and  the  nicest 
new  cheese,  and  honey  fresh  from  the  hive ;  followed,  as  fast 
as  possible,  by  various  after-courses  of  "  flap-jacks,"  molasses- 
gingerbread  and  pumpkin  pie ;  or,  if  it  were  the  season  of 
berries,  blueberry  pies  of  such  a  quality  as  none  but  Mrs. 
Pratt  could  present. 

While  at  tea,  the  old  lady  would  amuse  us  with  accounts 
of  her  success  in  culinary  manufactures.  We  had  the  whole 
history  of  her  soap-making,  from  the  first  "  setting  up"  of  the 
alkali,  down  to  the  day  when  it  took  upon  itself  the  proper 
consistency  of  soft-soap.  We  were  told  just  the  number  of 
times,  and  just  the  length  of  each  time,  that  the  refractory 
compound  was  stirred  every  day,  before  it  would  present  the 
appearance  that  a  washerwoman's  eye  requires  ;  the  qualities 
of  the  oil  and  the  alkali  were  duly  dilated  upon,  not,  to  be  sure, 
in  scientific  terms,  but  in  language  better  suited  to  our  under 
standing  ;  and  after  tea,  we  were  all  brought  into  the  shed  to 
look  at  the  three  barrels  full  of  soap,  so  thick  that  it  could  be 
moulded  into  balls  with  our  hands  !  Such  were  the  triumphs 
of  good  housewifery. 

But  the  history  of  her  new  carpet  was  the  most  wonderful. 
Gibbon's  Rome  was  nothing  to  it  —  nay,  even  Josephus  was 
thrown  into  the  shade.  Why,  she  began  with  the  very  lambs 
upon  the  hill-side,  and  the  white  clover  upon  which  they  feed! 
Then  came  the  sheep-shearing,  the  wool-carding,  the  spin 
ning,  the  reeling,  the  dyeing,  the  cleansing,  the  weaving,  &c. 
&c.,  through  octavos  (and  octaves)  innumerable.  That  carpet 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

—  why  it  was  the  glory  of  a  life-time  —  the  crowning-work 
of  twenty  years'  experience  ?  The  hues  were  Titian-ic,  the 
blending  prismatic,  the  execution  more  than  Olympic.  I  can 
not  say  I  used  to  enjoy  myself  in  that  old  parlor  quite  as  well 
after  that  carpet  was  upon  the  floor,  for,  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  never  could  quite  reconcile  myself  to  walking  over  so  many 
newspapers  and  bits  of  rug-work  as  were  spread  upon  it.  To 
have  stepped  upon  the  bare  carpet  itself  would  have  been 
sacrilege.  The  old  lady  would  never  have  forgiven  it.  That 
carpet !  why,  to  lift  up  the  corner  of  one  of  those  newspapers 
once  a  year,  and  gaze  for  a  few  moments  upon  its  green  and 
crimson  stripes,  was  better  than  a  visit  now-a-days  to  the 
Athenaeum  Gallery. 

Emma  and  Lucy  Pratt  were  not  without  their  accomplish 
ments,  as  the  ornaments  upon  the  mantelpiece  could  amply 
testify.  What  could  be  more  exquisite  than  those  egg-shells, 
with  a  circle  of  pink  cambric  hearts  pasted  around  them,  and 
the  rest  of  the  shell  covered  over  with  the  pith  of  bulrushes, 
disposed  in  regular  tiers  ?  These  were  hung  by  a  pink  tape 
loop,  to  the  wall ;  and  .beneath  them  stood  a  little  pasteboard 
box,  ornamented  with  bright  figures  cut  from  calico,  and  con 
taining  various  little  trinkets,  such  as  glass  beads,  the  cornea 
of  a  shad's  eye,  Guinea  peas,  and  rock  crystals.  There  were, 
besides,  a  variety  of  diamond-shaped  pincushions,  and  other 
indescribable  knick-knacks,  testifying  to  the  ingenuity  of  the 
young  ladies.  But  the  chcf-d'ceuvre  was  Miss  Emma's  sam 
pler.  Emma  was  undoubtedly  a  genius.  No  common  hand 
could  have  wrought  the  landscape  that  formed  the  base  of  that 
variegated  silk  alphabet.  That  pot  of  flowers,  standing,  in  full 
relief,  in  the  centre  of  an  extensive  plain,  with  an  apple  tree 
on  either  hand,  which,  by  the  inclination  of  their  tops,  seem 
swayed  by  adverse  winds,  one  from  the  east  and  the  other 
from  the  west,  threatening  to  bring  them  in  dangerous  con 
tact,  were  it  not  that  the  roses  in  the  flower  pot  intervene  to 
prevent,  —  surely  that  evinces  a  genius  which  savors  not  of 
the  Raphael,  perhaps,  but  certainly  of  the  district-school. 

The  girls,  however,  were  gay  and  good,  and  happy  and 
handsome,  qualities  which  are  as  desirable  as  accomplish- 


346  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

merits.  In  due  time  they  were  courted  and  married,  as  what 
pretty  girl  may  not  be,  if  she  chooses  ?  The  old  lady  had  a 
great  parade  of  quiltings  when  her  daughters  went  away. 
Never  was  patchwork  before  so  neatly  matched.  It  surpassed 
the  rarest  Mosaic.  It  was  worthy  of  Mrs.  Pratt  —  who  could 
say  more  ? 

I  attended  the  girls'  wedding.  They  were  both  married  in 
one  day.  When,  for  the  first  time,  that  wonderful  carpet  was 
revealed  in  its  unclouded  glory.  The  newspapers  and  rugs 
were  all  removed.  Nothing  disturbed  the  long  perspective  of 
those  brilliant  stripes.  Everything  else  was  unnoticed.  Even 
the  brides  attracted  less  attention  than  they  deserved,  for  they 
certainly  were  very  prettily  dressed,  in  their  white  lutestring 
silks,  with  clematis  flowers  in  their  hair.  I  watched  the  old 
lady.  She  looked  the  very  goddess  of  complacency,  glancing 
alternately  at  her  blooming  daughters  and  her  still  more 
blooming  carpet.  And  then  the  cake !  That  was,  indeed, 
the  crown  of  pride,  with  its  tasteful  trimming  of  clematis  and 
its  icing,  snowy-white.  I  think  the  remembrance  of  that  day 
of  glory  has  never  left  her  mind.  I  have  noticed  that  a  new 
ray  of  complacency  beams  perpetually  from  her  face.  She  is, 
indeed  the  queen  of  housewives. 

1843. 

HOUR  SEVENTEENTH.  —  Those  blue,  bewitching  eyes !  how 
provokingly,  for  the  last  ten  minutes,  they  have  been  tempting 
me  to  throw  down  my  pen,  and  spin  a  long  yarn  of  gossip ! 
They  ought  to  be  hung  for  witches,  such  spells  do  they  throw 
over  me  in  my  busiest  moments ;  such  guileful  ways  have 
they  of  drawing  me  away  from  my  most  serious  occupations ! 
I  would  seal  them  down  with  kisses,  and  resume  my  task,  but 
that  I  know  they  would  fly  open  again,  more  dazzling  and 
mirthful  than  before. 

Nevertheless,  I  have  a  design  upon  them.  Sit  thee  down 
at  my  feet,  saucy  one,  and  I  will  tell  thee  a  tale.  About  a 
mile  out  of  our  village,  on  a  wild  and  lonely  road,  for  many  a 
year  has  dwelt  a  poor,  old  widow.  Here  she  has  passed  the 
last  days  of  a  contented  and  inoffensive  life,  with  no  one  to 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  347 

share  her  meals,  or  guard  her  hearthstone.  Clinging  to  the 
homestead  with  that  attachment  that  becomes  so  strong  in  the 
bosoms  of  the  aged,  she  could  not  be  induced  by  her  children 
to  forsake  it,  even  for  their  protection  and  security.  That 
little  quiet  house  where  she  had  lived  with  her  husband,  and 
given  birth  to  her  children ;  that  old  table  where  they  had  sat 
with  her  at  meat,  the  chairs  they  had  occupied,  all  the  old  fur 
niture  so  endeared  to  her  by  a  thousand  memories  and  asso 
ciations,  how  could  she  exchange  them  for  anything  else  in 
the  wide,  wide  world  ?  So,  trusting  that  God  would  take  care 
of  her,  and  that  man  would  respect  the  feebleness  of  her  sex 
and  age,  she  has  lived  for  many  years  in  almost  utter  solitude. 
Last  Sabbath  evening  she  sat  quietly  reading  at  her  fireside, 
her  soul,  doubtless,  full  of  calm  and  pious  reflections,  when  a 
drunken  ruffian  burst  open  her  door  and  laid  ruthless  hands 
upon  her  person.  What  passed  in  that  fearful  struggle  can 
only  be  judged  from  the  terrible  scene  that  awaited  the  inves 
tigations  of  the  succeeding  day.  With  disordered  attire,  with 
broken  bones  and  violent  bruises,  and  other  injuries  upon  her 
person,  and  exhibiting  evidences  of  strangulation,  she  was 
found,  lifeless,  upon  the  floor — a  victim  of  those  hellish  fires 
of  passion,  which  rum  alone  could  inflame  to  such  desperate 
deeds  of  iniquity. 

*  ^  *  *  *  * 

Are  these  the  same  dear  eyes  that  a  few  moments  since 
gazed  into  mine  so  roguishly  ?  They  are  very  mournful  now, 
telling  me,  as  your  eyes  only  can,  the  pain  that  has  been 
created  in  your  heart.  My  tale  has  been  too  horrible,  and 
alas  !  "  ower  true."  How  bright  a  faith  do  we  need,  to  shine 
through  the  darkness  of  events  like  this  !  Why  should  this 
poor  old  woman,  harmless,  helpless,  and  unprotected,  be  sub 
mitted  to  this  cruel  violence  beside  her  own  hearthstone  ? 
Blind  Superstition  might  answer,  "  It  was  the  will  of  the  Most 
High  —  why  do  ye  question  it?"  But  enlightened  Christian 
Faith,  tracing  every  event  permitted  by  God  to  the  fountain 
of  Mercy  that  lies  in  His  bosom,  fears  not  to  look  for  the  rain 
bow  of  Divine  Goodness  even  upon  this  cloud  of  human 
depravity,  and  of  guiltless  suffering. 


348  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

Ought  we  to  suppose,  in  the  first  place,  that  this  poor 
woman,  violent  and  shocking  as  her  death  certainly  was,  really 
experienced  more  physical  or  even  mental  anguish  than  if  she 
had  died  of  some  natural  disease  ?  Yet  every  day,  people  die 
miserably  upon  their  beds,  beneath  the  most  tender  and  un 
wearied  efforts  for  their  preservation,  and  no  one  questions,  in 
these  cases,  the  justice  and  goodness  of  God,  or  doubts  that 
He  is  working  for  wise  and  holy  ends. 

God,  wishing  to  try  the  faith  of  Abraham,  ordered  him  to 
slay  his  innocent  son.  Upon  the  same  principle,  or  with  the 
same  purpose,  doubtless,  He  leads  us  up  the  sacrificial  mount, 
and  lays  a  guiltless  victim  before  us,  looking  into  our  hearts 
meanwhile,  to  smile  on  us,  or  frown,  according  as  Faith  shall 
pass  her  fiery  ordeal.  He  does  not  ask  of  us  to  submit,  because 
it  is  the  fiat  of  a  despot,  whom  it  is  death  to  question ;  but  to 
trust,  because  it  is  the  dispensation  of  a  Father,  desirous  only 
of  our  spiritual  good. 

But  my  story  has  a  darker  page  than  even  this.  If  it  be 
trying  to  our  faith  to  reconcile  the  melancholy  fate  of  this  poor 
old  widow  with  our  ideas  of  Infinite  Goodness,  is  it  not  much 
more  so  to  turn  to  the  wretched  author  of  this  iniquity,  and 
ask  why  it  is  that  he  was  suffered  to  bring  down  upon  himself 
this  fatal  burden  of  guilt  ?  To  him  belongs  a  doom  as  fearful 
as  hers  —  long  months  of  imprisonment,  and  perhaps  a  strug 
gling  death  upon  the  gallows.  But  oh !  how  inconceivably 
worse  than  these,  is  that  guilty  conscience  from  which  she  was 
exempt!  If  there  is  a  being  on  earth  who  needs  the  deepest 
commiseration  of  the  Christian  heart,  it  is  he  who  has  no 
refuge  from  outward  woe  in  the  depths  of  an  innocent  con 
science.  . 

It  is  not  the  certain  punishment  which  awaits  him,  that 
makes  him  an  object  of  pity,  if  anything  can  properly  be  called 
punishment  except  the  stings  of  conscience.  It  is  his  guilt, 
aside  from  any  suffering  which  it  induces.  It  cannot  be  diffi 
cult  for  the  most  innocent  among  us  to  imagine  that  state  of 
spiritual  midnight  which  the  loss  of  innocence  draws  down 
upon  the  soul.  God  has  so  constituted  man  that  he  must 
abhor  and  loathe  guilt,  even  while  he  commits  it.  How  ter 
rible,  then,  to  feel  its  vampire  claws  clinging  around  the 


FKOSE    SELECTIONS.  349 

naked  soul !  It  is  worse  than  a  thousand  deaths  j  worse  than 
years  of  imprisonment ;  worse  than  all  the  bodily  sufferings 
that  can  be  named.  Little  need  has  any  one  to  fear  that  sin 
will  go  unpunished.  It  is  itself  the  worst  of  all  punishments ; 
and  then  its  train  of  evils  —  where  do  they  end  ? 

Yet  there  are  those  who,  fearful  that  the  worst  of  fates  will 
not  fall  upon  the  criminal,  cry  aloud  for  his  public  execution. 
"  Hang  him  in  the  open  eye  of  the  world,"  they  say,  "  that  all 
men  may  be  deterred  from  the  commission  of  his  fatal  crime." 
Wretched  philosophy  this  !  Do  they  not  know,  the  preachers 
of  it,  that  the  eyes  of  those  who  would  look  on  such  a  spec 
tacle  would  be  fixed  rather  upon  the  hangman  than  upon  his 
victim  ?  Do  they  not  know  that  their  sympathies  would  all  go 
with  the  executioner  ?  Every  man  who  voluntarily  witnesses 
such  a  scene,  virtually  commits  murder  in  his  heart.  The 
law  does  not  compel  him  to  tie  the  cord  around  his  brother's 
neck,  but  he  goes,  exultant,  to  see  another  do  it,  and  glories  in 
every  struggle  and  every  groan  that  betrays  the  physical  ago 
nies  of  the  dying  wretch.  What  better  than  actual  murder  is 
a  feeling  like  this  ?  And  then  to  think  the  law  is  instrumen 
tal  in  engendering  it ! 

What  man,  under  the  influence  of  passion,  —  furious,  malig 
nant  passion,  —  would  ever  pause  in  the  commission  of  a 
crime,  to  think  of  the  terrors  of  the  gibbet  ?  What  restraint 
has  outward  law  on  a  man  who  has  no  inward  law  to  with 
hold  him  ?  If  he  thinks  at  all  of  its  penalties,  it  is  to  contem 
plate  some  mode  of  escaping  them.  I  question  whether  the 
law  ever  prevents  crime  by  its  penalties.  Does  not  its  force 
lie  rather  in  its  justice  ?  The  commandment,  "  Thou  shalt  not 
kill"  is  of  far  greater  efficacy  in  the  prevention  of  crime,  than 
the  supplementary  penalty,  "If  thou  dost,  thou  shalt  atone 
for  it  with  thy  life."  We  obey  a  law  because  it  commends 
some  duty,  or  prohibits  some  wrong ;  not  because  it  threatens 
us  with  punishment  if  we  disobey.  Penalties  are  chiefly 
necessary  as  means  of  reformation  after  a  crime  is  committed. 
They  ought,  therefore,  to  be  always  of  a  corrective  and  paren 
tal  character.  Governments  should  be  fathers;  their  laws  the 
precepts  of  fathers;  their  penalties  the  chastisements  of  fathers. 
30 


350  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

But  how  odious,  how  tyrannical,  how  diabolical,  is  the  revenge 
inflicted  on  the  murderer !  Poor,  guilty  wretch  !  why  cannot 
he  be  allowed  some  nobler  and  holier  expiation  than  the  sur 
rendering  of  his  mere  animal  life  ?  If  by  tears  of  penitence, 
if  by  earnest  prayers  to  his  Father,  if  by  long  abstinence  from 
vice  and  freedom  from  temptation,  he  shall  at  length  renew  his 
early  innocence,  who  will  not  look  upon  his  renovated  soul  as 
a  nobler  offering  to  Justice  than  all  the  strangled  corpses  that 
ever  swung  between  the  green  earth  and  the  blue  heaven  ?  I 
often  recall  the  words  of  an  eloquent  young  advocate  of  the 
law  of  kindness,  when  speaking  of  the  treatment  due  to  the 
capital  offender,  should  imprisonment  for  life  be  substituted  in 
the  place  of  the  punishment  of  death.  "  Through  the  day," 
he  said,  "  I  would  give  him  some  steady  employment,  that 
should  teach  him  industrious  habits,  and  conduce  to  the  health 
of  his  body  and  mind.  When  his  toils  were  ended,  I  would 
not  send  him  to  a  cold,  gloomy  cell,  damp  and  dark,  with  no 
bed  but  a  miserable  pittance  of  straw.  He  should  have  a  com 
fortable  apartment  and  a  good  fire  ;  —  I  would  give  him  books, 
and  a  light  to  read  them  by ;  and  the  Bible  should  lie  upon 
his  table ;  and  so,  instead  of  a  miserable  den,  it  should  seem 
to  him  like  a  home,  where  he  could  go  and  be  at  peace.  Nor 
should  he  dwell  forever  in  solitude,  cheered  only  by  the  voice 
of  his  keeper.  I  would  send  him  visitors  —  not  with  faces 
like  gravestones  and  voices  full  of  solemn  cant  that  should 
speak  to  him  only  of  his  guilt ;  but  they  should  be  those 
whose  smiles  could  light  up  the  gloom  of  his  dungeon,  and 
whose  conversation  should  cheer,  and  gladden,  and  make  him 
happy." 

Now  a  punishment  like  this  is  a  work  of  love.  And  it  as 
effectually  protects  society  from  his  further  outrages  as  even 
his  death  could  do.  Moreover,  it  is  a  noble  practice  of  the 
great  Christian  precept  of  good  for  evil  —  a  precept  designed 
not  more  exclusively  for  individuals  than  for  great  bodies 
of  society;  for  all  governments,  and  social  relations  between 
man  and  man.  But  my  gossip  is  growing  into  a  homily. 
Those  eyes  look  fairly  sleepy !  What  can  I  say  more,  then, 
but  —  GOOD  NIGHT  ! 

1844. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 


351 


HOUR  EIGHTEENTH. — The  point  at  which  selfishness  ceases 
to  be  a  virtue  and  becomes  a  crime,  seems  to  be  a  matter  of 
doubt,  even  among  moralists.  It  is  not  our  design  to  attempt 
a  settlement  of  the  disputed  boundary,  but  merely  to  name  a 
few  examples  of  what  some  may  call  justifiable,  but  which  to 
us  appears  reprehensible,  selfishness. 

Our  thoughts  were  turned  upon  this  subject  by  hearing  a 
song  carolled  through  the  streets  at  twilight.  The  voice  was 
rich  and  mellow,  and  passed  through  our  soul  like  a  current 
of  aroma.  It  might  have  been  the  mere  careless  outpouring 
of  a  happy  heart,  intent  upon  other  thoughts  than  those  of  the 
melody ;  be  that  as  it  may,  it  ran  like  a  stream  of  joy  through 
the  long  street,  and  who  can  say  how  many  spirits  beside  our 
own  grew  fresh  beneath  its  influence  ? 

We  have  known  singers  of  exquisite  skill,  who  used  their 
fascinating  gift  only  in  the  service  of  their  own  vanity.  They 
would  sing,  and  sing  divinely,  in  the  presence  of  a  choice  as 
sembly  ;  but  to  give  free,  unasked-for  pleasure  to  the  common 
crowd,  to  sing  an  evening  serenade  through  the  village  street, 
never  occurred  to  them  as  a  deed  promotive  of  their  personal 
advantage ;  and  of  course,  caring  for  self  only,  they  have  never 
performed  it.  This  is  an  example  of  selfishness  which  most 
persons  would  commend;  but  is  it  really  commendable  to 
withhold  any  healthful  gratification  from  the  public  which  we 
can  aflTord  them  without  self-sacrifice  ? 

There  are  also  eloquent  orators,  who  might  pour  streams 
of  moral  health  into  the  stagnant  sources  of  human  vice,  and 
change  them  into  fountains  of  goodness ;  but  these  speak  only 
to  intellectual  assemblies  who  can  appreciate  the  beauty  of 
their  rhetoric.  Why  should  they  cast  their  pearls  before 
swine  ?  That  would,  indeed,  be  useless }  but  there  is  pro 
vision  with  which  even  brutes  may  be  fed,  and  strengthened ; 
food,  which  if  it  be  not  like  bride's  cake,  trimmed  with 
flowers,  may  have  the  true  elements  of  the  bread  of  life. 

We  have  often  passed  beautiful  gardens  and  parks,  of  which 
the  owner  was  so  jealously  selfish  as  to  surround  them  with 
high  walls,  the  tops  of  the  trees  only  remaining  visible.  We 
regard  this  as  a  very  mean  species  of  selfishness.  Is  it  not 


362  PROSE    SELECTIONS, 

enough  for  him  that  he  is  the  possessor  of  all  this  beauty, 
without  secluding  it  from  the  eyes  of  those  who  are  happy  if 
they  may  be  permitted  but  to  gaze  upon  it  through  the  inter 
stices  of  fences  ?  How  much  sweeter  smell  his  golden  labur 
nums  and  scarlet  woodbines  than  if  they  were  allowed  to  scent 
the  dusty  street-breeze  with  their  dewy  odors  ?  The  very 
roses  grow  prudish  and  misanthropic  in  their  cloister,  for  want 
of  the  sunny  smiles  of  children  peeping  at  them  through  the 
fences,  and  the  "sound  of  their  sweet  voices  exclaiming,  "  Oh 
how  beautiful ! " 

We  do  not  expect  the  proprietor  of  a  museum  to  throw  open 
his  doors  gratuitously  to  the  crowd.  His  stuffed  snakes  and 
bottled  monsters  are  his  sources  of  revenue,  —  his  dependence 
for  daily  bread ;  but  the  owner  of  pleasure-grounds  is  exclu 
sive  from  a  less  commendable  self-interest.  He  is  unwilling 
that  the  vulgar  eye  should  admire  the  beauty  that  he  has 
planned  only  for  the  praise  of  the  fastidious.  He  loves  not  to 
see  simple-hearted  country  people  standing  by  his  gates,  look 
ing  with  impunity  at  those  rare  plants  which  it  has  cost  him 
so  much  care  to  gather  from  various  climes.  He  grudges 
them  the  perfume  of  his  choice  tea-roses  and  splendid  carna 
tions,  and  would  not  have  them  catch  the  sweet  notes  of  his 
caged  canaries. 

A  soul  like  this,  is  one  which,  if  it  had  the  power,  would 
build  walls  around  the  glorious  sunshine  and  the  balmy  air, 
and  shut  them  up  from  the  enjoyment  of  the  vulgar.  It  is  no 
excuse  for  him  that  the  children  pluck  now  and  then  a  super 
fluous  rose ;  or  that  thoughtless  lads  pilfer  here  and  there  a 
cluster  of  redundant  grapes.  He  is  happier  and  richer  in 
these  petty  losses  than  he  ever  can  be  in  nursing  his  haughty 
selfishness.  We  do  not  ask  him  to  throw  open  his  gates,  and 
let  the  multitude  walk  in  and  partake  freely ;  we  only  entreat 
that  the  beauty  which  fortune  has  drawn  to  his  domains,  may 
be  permitted  to  steal  out  and  gladden  the  hearts  of  those 
whose  lot  is  cast  in  desolate  abodes,  and  to  whom,  after  long 
inhaling  an  atmosphere  redolent  of  peat-smoke  and  market- 
stalls,  the  breath  of  flowers  is  like  a  breath  from  heaven. 
Many  a  heart  that  was  well-nigh  spent  with  weariness  and 


PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

despair,  has  been  soothed  and  saved  by  a  glimpse  of  green 
fields  and  radiant  blossoms.  Who,  then,  that  builds  high 
walls  to  exclude  them  from  the  gaze  of  the  passer-by,  can  tell 
how  many  souls  he  is  shutting  out  from  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  ?  And  yet,  such  selfishness  is  thought  no  crime  ! 

We  might  enumerate  other  instances  of  similar  exclusive- 
ness,  shown  by  the  owners  of  libraries,  and  the  proprietors  of 
church  pews  ;  but  if  we  were  to  proceed  to  great  length,  we 
fear  the  half  would  not  be  told  of  the  selfishness  that  darkens 
and  enslaves  our  world.  We  have  all  need  to  pray  daily  that 
our  hearts  may  be  enlarged,  and  our  charities  multiplied ;  that 
we  may  love  ourselves  more,  and  our  neighbor  as  ourselves. 

1844. 

HOUR  NINETEENTH.  —  It  is  evening.  The  rain,  dropping 
from  our  cottage  eaves,  tinkles  in  the  little  channel  it  has 
worn  in  the  loose  gravel  below,  and  now  and  then  a  stray 
drop  dashes  against  the  window-pane  close  by  my  table.  No 
ray  from  moon  or  star  pierces  the  thick  gloom.  Nothing  can 
I  see,  through  my  green-embowered  window,  but  the  occasional 
twinkle  of  a  neighbor's  lamp,  that  only  serves  to  make  the 
darkness  more  visible.  The  graceful,  wavy  outline  of  the 
hills  is  lost.  I  cannot  even  perceive  those  irregular  sheets  of 
ice  that  lie  thickly  strown  over  the  brown  turf,  giving,  by  day 
light,  such  a  mottled  appearance  to  the  whole  surface  of  the 
earth.  The  tall  pine,  that  breaks  the  monotony  of  our  south 
eastern  landscape,  is  now  entirely  blent  with  the  darkness 
that  surrounds  it.  Hills  and  valleys  disappear  —  the  whole 
scene  is  a  dead  level  of  blackness. 

No  birds  sing  now  in  the  trees  that  canopy  our  roof.  The 
leaves  began  to  fade  soon  after  they  left,  perhaps  with  grief 
that  the  beautiful  creatures  they  sheltered  had  deserted  them. 
They  fell  one  by  one,  stricken  dead  by  the  first  sorrow.  Now 
the  long  boughs  swing  nakedly  over  us,  or  send  down  showers 
of  heavy  rain-drops  and  icicles,  whenever  the  blast  sweeps 
suddenly  among  them.  But  in  the  same  proportion  that  the 
outer  life  perishes,  the  inner  life  becomes  renewed.  The 
mind  seems  to  enlarge  its  bounds  accordingly  as  the  body  is 
30* 


354  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

circumscribed.  The  soul  has  its  green  fields  and  waving 
woods,  and  running  waters,  and  in  and  beside  them,  can 
refresh  itself  with  perpetual  delight.  Without  fatigue,  it  can 
ascend  mountains,  and  gaze  on  illimitable  scenes  of  air  and 
earth ;  or  stray  through  grassy  meadows,  and  feel  no  languor 
from  the  noontide  heat. 

It  is  a  beneficent  ordinance  of  God  that  the  mind  has  this 
reliance  on  inward  sources,  else  where  were  its  refuge  when 
the  beauty  of  the  universe  hath  perished  ?  Yet  few  of  us 
enlarge  these  sources  to  the  extent  of  which  they  are  capable. 
Very  few  can  truly  say,  "  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is," 
ample  for  the  gratification  of  every  want.  With  some  of  us 
this  may  be  a  misfortune,  but  with  more  of  us  it  is  culpable 
negligence.  Have  we  sent  out  our  thoughts  perpetually,  like 
honey  bees,  to  collect  rich  treasures  from  every  source  ?  What 
if  the  winter  come,  and  find  our  minds  unstored  ?  It  will  be 
too  late  then  to  begin  the  work.  Now,  while  the  sunny  hours 
are  with  us,  let  us  provide  for  the  day  of  need. 

How  nobly  the  mind  may  act,  independently  of  outward 
aids,  and  what  glorious  visions  may  surround  it,  when  scenes 
of  actual  beauty  are  excluded,  may  be  learned  from  the  fact 
that  the  two  greatest  poems  on  record  —  those  which  contain 
the  sublimest  visions  and  the  noblest  relations — were  both  com 
posed  while  their  authors  were  totally  blind.  Loss  of  sight 
did  not  leave  these  mighty  spirits  in  darkness.  They  were 
illuminated  by  inward  glories,  such  as  the  eyes  of  the  body 
never  beheld.  What  though  to  Milton's  "  idle  orbs"  the  sight 
did  not  appear, 

"  Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star,  throughout  the  year, 
Or  man,  or  woman?  " 

Had  he  not  the  consciousness  of  noble  deeds  to  cheer  him  ? 
Were  not  these  far  more  glorious  than  all  the  myriad  lights 
of  heaven  ?  His  eyes  failed  him  in  the  service  of  liberty,  and 
this  thought,  he  says  — 

"  Might  lead  him  through  the  world's  vain  mask, 
Content,  though  blind,  had  he  no  better  guide." 

But  while  I  have  been  moralizing,  the  wind  has  suddenly 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

shifted  to  the  south-west.  The  clouds  have  broken  apart,  and 
their  silver  openings,  where  the  moon  sheds  her  radiance,  seem, 
like  "  vistas  into  heaven."  The  droppings  from  the  eaves  still 
continue,  but  the  rain  no  longer  patters  against  my  window. 
By  twelve  o'clock,  the  skies  will  be  clear  and  starry.  Then 
the  winds  will  gather  their  forces  for  a  grand  assault  on  the 
morrow.  God  shelter  the  poor  wretches  exposed  to  their 
piercing  chills !  As  for  me,  under  the  shelter  of  a  firm  roof, 
and  in  the  embraces  of  a  stuffed  arm-chair,  I  can  bid  defiance 
to  their  rage. 
1844. 


HOUR  TWENTIETH.  —  One  class  of  personages,  familiar  to 
my  childhood,  seems  of  late  years  to  have  forsaken  this  part  of 
the  country.  I  allude  to  old  strolling  mendicants.  When  I 
was  a  little  girl,  there  were  no  less  than  five  or  six  individuals 
of  this  class,  who  used  to  make  regular  peregrinations  through 
our  village.  These  have  all  gone  to  their  humble  graves, 
beyond  the  reach  of  want,  and  no  successor  has  appeared 
upon  the  highways,  to  make  us  forget  our  loss. 

There  was  really  much  good  sense  in  the  reply  of  that  in 
imitable  old  beggar,  Edie  Ochiltree,  to  the  friend  who  pro 
posed  providing  him  with  a  steady  home.  "  What,"  said  he, 
"  wad  a'  the  country  about  do  for  want  o'  auld  Edie  Ochiltree, 
that  brings  news  and  country  cracks  frae  ae  farm-steading  to 
anither,  and  gingerbread  to  the  lassies,  and  helps  the  lads  to 
mend  their  fiddles,  and  the  gudewives  to  clout  their  pans,  and 
and  plaits  rush-swords  and  grenadier  caps  for  the  weans,  and 
busks  the  laird's  flees,  and  has  skill  o'  cow-ills,  and  horse-ills, 
and  kens  mair  auld  songs  and  tales  than  a'  the  barony  besides, 
and  gars  ilka  body  laugh  wherever  he  comes  ?  troth,  my  leddy, 
I  canna  lay  down  my  vocation,  —  it  would  be  a  public  loss" 

It  is,  indeed,  something  of  a  stroke  to  a  community  to  lose 
a  good  gossip.  One,  I  mean,  given  only  to  harmless  tattling, 
and  who  communicates  intelligence  from  one  family  to  another, 
without  embittering  it  with  evil  suspicions  and  distorted  repre 
sentations.  Many  an  old  beggar  has  paid  for  his  dinner  or 


356  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

lodging  with  a  good  dish  of  gossip,  who,  but  for  this  welcome 
equivalent,  would  have  been  thrust  rudely  from  the  thresh 
old.  The  beggar  himself  usually  well  understands  this 
secret  of  success,  and  at  every  stopping-place  makes  it  a  rule 
to  add  as  many  scraps  to  his  news-basket  as  he  distributes 
from  it. 

Very  welcome  was  the  sight  of  one  old  stroller,  who  never 
failed  in  autumn  and  winter  to  come  with  pockets  full  of  nuts 
for  the  children.  Like  Edie,  he  wore  a  long  gown,  which 
set  off  to  advantage  his  tall,  erect  frame,  and  gave  him  some 
thing  of  the  appearance  of  a  palmer.  His  hair  was  long, 
curly,  and  silver-white.  We  knew  him  by  the  first  wave  of 
his  gown  in  the  distance,  and  awaited  with  eagerness  the 
approach  of  his  measured  steps.  How  impatient  we  were  for 
all  the  preliminaries  and  ceremonies  to  be  finished  ;  how  ready 
to  open  the  door  and  bid  him  enter ;  to  bring  him  a  chair,  and 
ask  him  to  sit  toward  the  fire.  We  never  dared  be  familiar 
with  him.  There  was  something  in  that  long  white  hair  that 
imposed  awe  upon  our  timid  spirits.  To  stand  silently  in  one 
corner  of  the  room,  and  watch  every  movement,  and  listen  to 
every  speech  the  old  man  made,  was  the  most  we  ventured  to 
presume  upon.  At  last,  he  would  thrust  his  long  bony  hand 
into  his  pocket,  and  fumble  among  its  contents,  till  we  were 
ready  to  die  with  impatience  ;  but  when  we  once  got  actual 
possession  of  the  nuts,  no  treasure  ever  seemed  so  precious. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  it  a  blessing  to  a  community  to 
have  a  few  strolling  beggars ;  a  few,  adapted  as  old  Edie 
Ochiltree  was  to  the  profession.  Not  that  I  like  the  sight  of 
misery,  —  I  do  not  speak  of  miserable  beggars,  those  who  feel 
the  friendlessness  and  degradation  of  their  condition,  —  but  I 
think  there  is  a  good  lesson  to  us  in  the  occasional  visit  of 
some  light-hearted,  sturdy  old  mendicant,  who,  without  a 
roof  to  cover  his  head,  and  sometimes  with  scarce  a  rag  to 
shelter  his  bosom,  is  nevertheless  as  happy  and  independent 
as  a  prince.  It  teaches  us  that  it  is  not  condition,  but  te?npcr, 
that  gives  a  man  contentment.  Why,  the  beggar,  resting 
under  the  wayside  tree,  arid  singing  some  old  revolutionary 
ballad  to  the  crowd  of  boys  that  gather  around  him,  is  a 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  357 

prouder  and  more  admired  man,  than  the  orator  at  the  capital. 
And  what  rich  man,  upon  his  couch  of  down,  sleeps  as  soundly 
and  refreshingly  as  he  upon  his  bed  of  sweet-smelling-hay  ? 
Or  what  epicure,  at  his  table  of  dainties,  fares  so  sumptuously 
as  he  upon  the  bounty  of  cold  victuals  spread  for  him  upon 
the  kitchen  board  of  every  dwelling  he  chooses  to  enter  ? 

But  the  race  of  native,  itinerant  beggars,  seems  nearly 
extinct.  Labor  is  so  abundant,  and  the  necessaries  of  life  so 
easily  obtained,  that  a  lazy  man  has  a  thousand  easier  ways 
of  subsisting  than  by  soliciting  public  charity.  Moreover,  a 
beggar  would  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  strolling  when  it  is  so 
fashionable  to  travel  by  steam.  The  spirit  of  the  times  is 
obviously  unfavorable  to  the  old  institution  of  mendicity.  It 
must  pass  away  with  slavery,  rum-selling,  capital  punishment, 
and  other  relics  of  old  ages  and  tyrannical  codes.  This  is,  to 
be  sure,  placing  it  in  bad  company  —  for  who  would  not  far 
rather  be  a  beggar,  than  a  slave,  a  rum-seller,  or  a  hangman  ? 
but  as  it  seems  to  sustain  some  family  relation  to  these  old 
customs,  it  is  evidently  fated  to  follow  in  their  train  to  the 
regions  of  the  unreturning  past. 

1844. 


HOUR  TWENTY-FIRST.  —  There  is  something  singularly 
enlivening  in  the  "  breaking  up "  of  winter.  I  have  just 
been  gazing  out  of  the  window,  and  taking  note  of  the  vari 
ous  little  peculiarities  that  make  this  warm  February  day  so 
cheering.  The  landscape  is  spotted  with  drifts,  which  look 
like  island  mountains  heaving  up  from  a  sea  of  mud ;  the 
water  runs  in  little  rivulets  beside  the  streets,  or  forms  crystal 
pools  for  the  benefit  of  the  doves  and  chickens  that  frequent 
the  door-yard.  The  bees  are  out  in  swarms,  buzzing  around 
the  hives,  and  the  blue  jays  and  chickadees  flit  from  bough  to 
bough  of  the  leafless  trees.  It  does  one's  heart  good  to  see 
them,  so  hopeful,  and  so  happy  !  Hope  seems  to  be  no  more 
an  instinct  with  them  than  with  man  —  it  is  a  spirit  that 
cheers  universal  Nature.  "  Hope !  "  says  the  German  poet  to 
the  dying  flower ;  "  thou  wilt  yet  live  to  see  that  the  spring 


358  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

returns.  All  trees  that  the  autumnal  winds  destroy,  hope. 
Their  buds,  through  all  the  winter,  hope  with  calm  courage, 
until  the  sap  stirs  itself  again,  and  a  new  verdure  springs 
forth."  If  I  were  to  characterize  the  seasons,  I  should  pro 
nounce  Winter  the  period  of  Hope,  Spring  of  Promise,  Sum 
mer  of  Fruition,  Autumn  of  Decay.  Is  then  autumn  the 
only  melancholy  season  ?  No !  for  it  is  as  essential  to  the 
enjoyments  of  our  earthly  existence,  that  what  we  have  loved 
to  satiety  should  perish,  as  that  it  should  be  renewed  again. 
Who  ever  truly  enjoyed  a  pleasure  of  which  he  had  never 
been  deprived  ?  or  rightly  loved  a  friend  from  whom  he  had 
never  been  separated  ? 

A  few  weeks  hence  the  infolded  buds  of  the  lilac  will  burst 
into  beauty,  the  violets  steal  forth  from  the  soil,  the  birds  hunt 
the  hedges  for  straws  and  down  to  construct  their  summer 
homes,  and  there  will  be  nothing  in  nature  but  renovation  and 
beauty.  Invalids  will  arise  from  their  weary  couches  to 
breathe  the  soft  air  of  the  fields,  the  old  wih1  walk  forth  in  the 
light-heartedness  of  second  childhood,  the  young  will  shout 
and  dance  as  though  they  had  breathed  the  element  of  joy  to 
excess,  and  humanity  will  everywhere  partake  largely  of  the 
delicious  influences  of  the  season. 

A  few  that  we  love  may  sleep,  and  the  green  grass  may 
wave  over  their  dust.  Let  us  not  suffer  their  absence  to 
throw  a  gloom  over  the  beauty  of  the  earth.  They  roam  in 
fairer  fields  than  we,  beneath  a  bluer  sky  than  ours.  We  see 
them  not  —  but  they,  from  their  invisible  dwelling-place,  look 
down  upon  us  in  joy  and  love.  We  know  that  we  shall  rejoin 
them  soon.  Till  then,  let  us  patiently  endure  and  cheerfully 
enjoy  this  earthly  life.  Let  the  spring  gladden  us,  and  the 
summer  cast  over  us  the  spell  of  its  beauty ;  for  God  has 
made  all  these  things  to  cheer  and  comfort  us. 

Oh,  if  heaven  be  much  fairer  than  the  earth,  how  glorious 
indeed  it  must  be  !  If  we  love  better  there  than  here,  how 
tenderly  indeed  must  we  love !  If  its  joys  greatly  surpass  in 
richness  the  joys  .of  earth,  who  on  earth  can  estimate  the 
happiness  prepared  for  us  then  !  It  is  blessed  indeed  to  know 
that  not  only  will  every  evil  of  the  present  life  be  excluded, 


PSOSE    SELECTIONS.  359 

but  that  every  joy  and  beauty  will  be  a  thousand  fold  more 
exquisite,  and  a  thousand  fold  augmented,  in  heaven. 

In  this  faith  let  us  enjoy  the  earth,  and  endure  its  trials ;  in 
this  faith  live  and  die. 

1844. 

DEBBY  LINCOLN. 

A   VILLAGE    STORY. 

EVERYBODY  said  Debby  Lincoln  was  a  pretty  girl,  an  amia 
ble  girl,  a  good  girl,  but  would  make  a  miserable  wife.  And 
when  she  rose  up  in  the  singing  gallery,  every  Sabbath  morn 
ing,  and  led  off  the  hymn  in  her  sweet,  bird-like  voice,  the 
village  beaux  looked  at  her,  and  thought,  "  True,  Debby  Lin 
coln  is  a  pretty  girl,  an  amiable  girl,  a  charming  girl.  What 
a  pity  it  is  she  will  not  make  a  good  wife ! " 

There  was  one  among  them,  however,  who  set  at  naught 
everybody's  opinion,  and  verily  thought  in  his  heart  that 
Debby  would  make  a  good  wife ;  but  he  was  a  prudent  lad, 
and  he  kept  his  thoughts  all  to  himself. 

But  what  was  the  matter  with  Debby,  that  the  mark  of  ill- 
housewifery  was  set  upon  her  by  those  who  were  so  ready  to 
grant  her  the  possession  of  qualifications  not  less  desirable  ? 
Ah,  sad  to  tell,  Debby  was  an  inveterate  novel-reader !  and, 
worse  than  that,  she  loved  to  gather  wild-flowers,  to  walk  by 
moonlight,  to  ramble  in  the  woods ;  and  some  said  she  was 
even  so  foolish  as  to  draw  pictures  of  old  trees  and  broken 
fences ! 

Ah,  Debby  was  a  sad  girl,  to  be  sure,  wasting  her  time  in 
this  way,  when  all  the  other  girls  in  town  were  laying  up 
treasure  after  treasure,  in  the  shape  of  patched  counterpanes, 
rose-blankets,  silver  spoons,  and  striped  carpets.  What  if  her 
cheek  did  grow  brighter  from  her  long  rambles  in  the  open 
air  ?  and  what  if  her  much  reading  had  infused  a  peculiar 
grace  into  her  manners  and  her  speech  ?  Could  these  acqui 
sitions  counterbalance  the  accomplishments  of  churning, 
cheese-making,  and  wool-spinning,  in  which  her  sisters  and 
female  acquaintances  excelled?  Poor  Debby!  when  her 


360  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

mother  talked  to  her  in  this  wise,  she  hung  her  head  very 
demurely,  and  wept  tears  of  repentance  over  her  folly;  but 
her  perverse  nature  would  not  be  controlled,  and  away  she 
went  again,  in  the  same  old  path  as  before. 

Well,  we  have  said  before  that  there  was  one  lad  who  had 
a  different  opinion  of  Debby ;  and  he  happened,  one  day,  to 
meet  her  sitting  upon  the  stile,  in  the  apple-orchard,  weeping 
very  bitterly.  She  heard  his  step  and  raised  her  head  to  see 
who  was  coming.  When  she  recognized  Ben  Wilson,  she 
hid  it  again  very  quickly  in  her  apron,  for  her  eyes  were  red 
and  full  of  tears,  and  she  had  rather  any  one  should  see  her 
looking  uncomely,  than  this  same  Master  Ben. 

"Why,  Debby,"  said  he,  "what  is  the  matter?"  sitting 
down  on  the  stile  at  her  side. 

Debby  sobbed,  but  could  n't  speak  a  word. 

"Has  Ned  Wallace  been  a  teasing  you?  If  he  has,  Debby, 
I  '11  souse  him  into  the  horse-pond." 

"No,  Ben,  I  am  crying  about  my  own  bad  actions." 

"  Poh  !  nonsense,  Debby.  You  never  did  a  bad  thing  in 
your  life.  Somebody  has  been  worrying  you  with  that  fool 
ish  story  that  you  ought  to  be  at  work,  instead  of  reading 
novels,  and  walking  in  the  fields.  Never  mind  them  a  bit, 
dear,  but  just  go  on  as  your  sweet  nature  prompts  you." 

"Ah,  Ben,  but  mother  thinks  I  am  very  bad  —  not  worth 
the  raising ;  and  yet  it  seems  to  me  if  she  loved  to  hear  the 
birds  sing  and  see  the  bright  flowers  springing  up  by  the 
brook-side,  as  well  as  I  do,  she  would  not  reproach  me  for 
rambling  an  hour  or  two  every  day,  under  the  open  sky.  And 
then  my  books,  Ben  ;  is  n't  it  hard,"  —  and  here  a  plump  little 
hand  stole  out  upon  his  arm  — "  is  n't  it  hard  to  be  denied  the 
pleasure  of  reading  about  knights,  and  tourneys,  and  lords, 
and  ladies,  and  all  the  wonderful  and  brilliant  scenes  of  other 
ages  and  other  lands  ?  Why,  Ben,"  she  continued,  forgetting 
her  humiliation  in  the  interest  of  her  subject,  and  glowing 
with  youthful  enthusiasm,  "  you  cannot  think  what  beautiful 
dreams  my  reading  inspires ;  and  how  sometimes  my  fancy 
pictures  a  regal  tournament,  with  you  for  one  of  the  masked 
knights,  Ben ;  and  O  dear,  a  lot  of  nonsense  which  I  am 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  361 

ashamed  to  tell,  but  so  interesting  and  delightful  to  think 
about.  Now,  do  you  think  it  wrong  ? "  and  as  she  put  this 
question,  she  looked  up  into  his  face  with  such  a  beseeching 
earnestness,  that  Ben,  had  he  been  a  saint,  would  have  an 
swered,  "  No ! " 

"  Why,  Debby  Lincoln ! "  said  he,  "  you  are  just  like  me, 
only  I  put  you  in  for  Queen  of  Beauty,  as  I  think  you  are ! " 

"Fie,  Ben,  you  don't  think  any  such  thing!  Amanda 
Burton  is  your  Queen  of  Beauty,  and  she  wears  a  lock  of 
your  hair  in  her  breast-pin." 

"Well,  Debby,  she'stole  it  one  intermission-time,  at  school, 
and  I  teased  her  to  give  it  back,  but  she  would  n't.  I  '11  give 
you  a  lock,  if  you  will  accept  it,  for  I  think  you  are  ten  times 
handsomer  than  Amanda." 

Our  readers  must  pardon  Ben's  blunt  mode  of  gallantry, 
for  he  was  but  a  boy  of  seventeen,  unskilled  in  the  artificial 
courtesies  of  the  world ;  and  Debby,  naughty  girl,  provoked 
him  into  compliments,  by  feigning  to  stand  very  low  in  his 
good  graces.  She  felt  quite  proud  and  happy  when  he  cut 
from  his  temples  a  long  wavy  tress,  and  wound  it  playfully 
about  her  wrist. 

"  Keep  it,  Debby,"  he  whispered,  "  for  when  you  will  see 
me  again,  I  cannot  tell." 

Debby  looked  up  amazed.  The  tear  glittering  in  his  eye, 
despite  his  smiles,  proved  the  seriousness  of  his  declaration. 
"  Are  you  going  away,  Ben  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  Yes,  for  a  long  time.  And  I  am  glad  of  it,  though  I  shall 
leave  many  things  behind  me  that  I  love.  Debby,  dear,  I  am 
going  to  be  a  painter." 

"  A  painter ! "  exclaimed  Debby,  in  a  tone  of  mortification ; 
"I  shouldn't  think  that  trade  would  please  you.  Do  you 
mean  a  house-painter  or  a  fancy -painter,  or  what?" 

"  A  house-painter  and  a  fancy -painter,  too,"  said  Ben, 
laughing.  "  I  shall  paint  both  houses  and  fancies,  I  guess,  if 
I  succeed ;  and  perhaps  I  shall  paint  you,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"  0, 1  know;  you  mean  you  are  going  to  be  an  artist,"  ex 
claimed  Debby,  brightening  up  at  the  thought  of  Ben's  coming 
distinction. 

31 


362  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

"  Yes,  an  artist.  You  know  what  a  sleight  I  have  in  draw 
ing  things  that  I  see,  and  how  I  used  to  teach  you  to  draw 
trees  and  houses  on  a  slate,  when  we  were  schoolmates 
together.  Now  father,  like  all  the  people  about  here,  thinks 
that  everything  that  is  not  work  is  idleness ;  and  he  has  been 
out  of  patience  with  me  very  often  for  spending  so  much  time 
in  making  pictures.  A  week  or  two  ago,  I  was  down  to  Mr. 
Pratt's  paint-shop,  which  joins  father's  cow-pasture.  Our  old 
Buckhorn,  that  father  thinks  so  much  of,  stood  grazing  before 
the  window,  and  I  asked  Mr.  Pratt's  leave  to  paint  her  upon 
a  bit  of  board  that  lay  on  his  table.  He  gave  me  the  suitable 
colors,  and  I  succeeded,  as  the  portrait-painters  say,  in  getting 
a  very  good  likeness.  I  ran  home  with  it,  and  placed  it  over 
the  mantel-piece.  Mother  has  always  rather  encouraged  my 
taste  for  the  art,  and  I  saw  her  eyes  glisten  as  father  came  in 
from  work,  and  walked  up  toward  the  fire.  '  Hurrah  ! '  said 
he,  'that  is  old  Bucky  herself!  Is  that  your  work,  Ben?' 
'  Yes,'  I  answered,  promptly,  making  up  my  mind  to  meet 
calmly  reproof  or  approbation,  as  the  tide  might  chance  to 
turn.  '  Well,  Ben,'  said  he,  '  I  don't  see  anything  but  what 
we  shall  have  to  make  a  painter  of  you.  How  would  you 
like  to  go  to  New  York,  to  learn  the  art  of  my  old  friend  M.  ? ' 
'  O,  nothing  could  make  me  happier,  father,'  said  I ;  and 
mother,  putting  in  her  word  of  counsel,  the  matter  was  in  a 
short  time  decided.  I  do  believe  if  I  had  painted  a  portrait  of 
mother  as  good  as  Stuart  could  paint,  it  would  not  have 
pleased  him  more  than  that  little  daub-sketch  of  old  Bucky ! " 

"  Well,  Ben,  I  am  glad  you  are  going,  on  your  account,  but 
what  shall  I  do,  with  no  one  to  excuse  my  faults,  and  make 
me  think  I  am  worthy  to  share  the  light  of  God's  heaven  ?  O, 
Ben,  you  are  the  only  friend  I  have  who  is  kind  to  me  ! "  and 
again  the  large  vexatious  tears  gushed  wilfully  forth  from 
Debby's  hazel  eyes. 

"  Never  mind  'em  a  bit,  Debby,  dear.  They  will  all  be 
proud  of  you  some  day,  and  think  it  an  honor  to  be  your 
acquaintance.  I  am  sure  I  shall,  for  one.  And  now,  since  I 
may  not  see  you  again  to  have  much  talk,  what  little  keep- 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  363 

sake  can  I  beg  of  you  ?     Some  trifle  or  other,  Debby,  that  I 
can  look  at,  and  say,  '  This  was  Debby's  gift ! ' " 

"  O,  I  have  nothing  in  the  world  fit  to  give  you,  Ben,  unless 
it  be  this  old  song-book  I  have  carried  in  my  pocket  so  long." 

"  Just  the  thing  I  should  have  chosen  !  for  every  time  I 
open  it,  which  will  be  often,  Debby,  and  read  '  Bonny  Boon,' 
or  '  My  Highland  Laddie,'  or  any  of  those  favorite  songs,  I 
shall  think  of  your  sweet  voice  ringing  through  the  hop-field 
as  it  did  at  the  last  picking,  or  starting  out  the  swallows  from 
the  hay-loft  in  husking  time.  I  will  carry  it  in  my  spen 
cer-pocket,  close  to  my  heart,  and  see  then  if  I  forget  you, 
Debby ! " 

Debby  smiled,  and  blushed,  and  sighed,  all  at  once  ;  then 
held  out  her  hand  to  bid  him  good-bye. 

"  No,  no,  Debby !  I  have  kissed  you  at  huskings,  and  for 
feit  plays,  and  time  and  again,  without  an  excuse,  when  we 
were  younger ;  would  you  send  me  off  now,  now,  Debby, 
when  we  may  never  see  each  other  again,  with  a  mere  cold 
shake  of  the  hand  ?  " 

Debby  did  n't  know  what  to  say,  but  Ben  knew  what  to  do, 
and  giving  her  a  hearty  kiss  on  her  cheek,  such  as  the  country 
girls  were  used  to,  a  half  century  back,  he  was  in  a  few  min 
utes  out  of  sight,  over  the  hill. 

***«=*=* 

Ah,  me  !  Time  —  what  a  magician  he  is !  Nothing  but 
the  world-old  mountains,  and  the  deluge-born  hills,  and  the 
ever-shining  firmament,  can  outstand  his  assaults ;  no,  not 
even  Debby,  the  dreamer  of  dreams,  and  the  worshipper  of 
flowers. 

"  What !  Debby  grown  old  ?  "  says  a  saucy  fellow,  peeping 
over  my  shoulder  to  read  my  tale. 

Yes,  Hal,  beauty  will  fade,  and  even  heroines  are  not  proof 
against  wrinkled  skins,  and  gray  hairs.  We  who  have  no 
beauty,  are  the  only  ones  fully  sensible  of  its  little  worth  ;  and 
are  always  kind  enough  to  caution  young  men  against  being 
misled  by  it. 

"  Ah,  yes  —  but  one  thing,  sis ;  you  always  make  your 
heroines  beautiful,  which  I  am  sure  you  would  n't  do,  if  you 


364  PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

did  not  think  it  of  some  value.  So,  you  are  caught  there  ! 
But  how  old  had  Debby  grown  ?  " 

Why,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  did  not  number  less  than  a  score 
of  years ;  and  such  had  been  the  peculiar  influence  of  her 
daily  rambles  and  bird-like  freedom  of  soul,  that  her  beauty 
seemed  to  have  grown  brighter  and  more  benignant  as  her 
mind  and  bodily  stature  enlarged. 

She  had  a  full,  Venus  form,  for  with  characteristic  perver 
sity,  she  had  resisted  the  application  of  whalebone  and  cords 
to  the  fine  development  of  breathing  apparatus  with  which 
nature  had  endowed  her,  and  grew  into  proportions  far  more 
elegant  than  the  models  sent  out  from  the  statuary  shops 
of  the  mantua-maker.  The  pure,  healthful  blood,  coursing 
through  her  veins,  gave  a  bright  tint  to  her  cheeks,  and  vivac 
ity  to  every  motion. 

"  And  all  this,  because  she  neglected  her  tasks,  and  ran 
wild  in  the  woods,  I  suppose.  You  are  inculcating  unthrifty 
practices,  I  fear,  sis." 

Not  so,  Hal.  But  be  still  of  interrupting  me,  or  I  shall 
never  get  on  with  my  story.  Time,  as  I  was  saying,  changes 
all  things ;  and  not  the  least  surprising  of  his  transformations 
was  the  alteration  effected  in  Debby's  habits.  She  loved  as 
well  as  ever  the  little  "  floral  apostles  "  of  the  wood  and  field ; 
she  had  lost  none  of  her  taste  for  long  solitary  walks,  and 
strolls  by  moonlight ;  and,  mortifying  to  tell,  she  loved,  none 
the  less  than  of  old,  to  dream  day-dreams,  and  read  romances. 
But  though  she  still  indulged  herself  in  a  daily  ramble,  and 
decked  her  hair  with  wild  flowers  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
and  stole  many  a  casual  moment  to  glance  at  the  pages  of  a 
favorite  book,  she  had  learned  the  proper  dignity  of  labor,  and 
more  fully  estimated,  than  in  younger  days,  the  strength  of 
her  filial  obligations.  Her  sisters  were  all  married,  and  her 
mother,  growing  infirm,  required  her  constant  aid. 

Behold  our  romping  Debby,  therefore,  installed  mistress  of 
the  dairy,  and  presiding  divinity  of  the  kitchen !  See  her, 
with  a  wreath  of  pretty  cabbage-flowers  in  her  dark  hair, 
standing  over  the  churn,  the  rounded  muscles  of  her  white 
arms  throwing  the  handle  up  and  down  with  an  effort  that 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  365 

has  sent  the  blood  in  bright  currents  to  her  cheeks,  and  made 
her  eyes  glow  with  dazzling  beauty.  Or  look  in  upon  her  of 
a  Monday  morning  —  a  time  when  an  invasion  of  the  kitchen 
is  sacrilegious,  I  know  —  and  see  if  the  vapor-bath  from  the 
steaming  wash-tub  has  dimmed  the  sweetness  of  her  smiles, 
or  choked  the  rich  music  of  her  laugh.  Hear  her  song,  too, 
mocking  the  notes  of  the  bluebird  upon  the  roof-tree  !  Now 
she  is  out  in  the  yard,  spreading  the  clean  linen  upon  the 
grass ;  and  who  will  chide  her  if  she  pauses  from  her  task  to 
smell  the  new-blown  lilacs,  or  tuck  away  a  daffodil  in  her  bosom  ? 

"  But  where  is  Ben  Wilson,  that  he  is  not  back  to  tell  Deb- 
by  that  he  loves  her  ?  "  asks  that  saucy  Hal,  peeping  over  my 
shoulder  again. 

Why,  do  you  not  suppose  Debby  has  lovers  enough  already 
at  her  feet  without  my  running  away  to  New  York  to  bring 
her  one  ?  The  village  beaux  have  forgotten  their  old  doubts 
of  Debby's  thrift,  and  begin  to  feel  the  influence  of  prudential 
considerations  mingling  with  their  uncalculating  admiration 
of  her  beauty.  A  report  is  credited  in  the  village  that  a  no 
less  personage  than  'Squire  Hazlitt,  who  has  recently  buried 
his  old  wife,  and  is  the  richest  man  in  the  neighborhood,  not 
excepting  even  Captain  Wilson,  is  about  silencing  all  rivalry 
by  his  superior  claims.  And  sure  enough,  the  'Squire  must 
have  some  object  in  directing  his  steps  toward  widow  Lin 
coln's  house  every  Sunday  evening,  the  brass  buttons  glitter 
ing  on  his  blue  coat  like  so  many  stars  in  the  azure  firma 
ment,  and  his  white  hat  brushed  till  it  rivals  the  gloss  on  the 
back  of  the  old  gander  that  waddles  about  his  door-yard. 

We  will  follow  him  into  the  widow's,  and  inquire  into  the 
character  of  his  pretensions.  He  knocks  at  the  door,  and 
Mrs.  Lincoln  ushers  him  into  the  parlor. 

"  Miss  Debby  at  home  ?  "  he  inquires.  The  widow  sim 
pers,  and  answers  in  the  affirmative,  then  hurries  off  in  search 
of  the  truant.  After  scanning  every  corner  of  the  house,  she 
hastens,  as  fast  as  her  stiffened  limbs  will  carry  her,  to  the 
apple  orchard,  where  she  finds  Debby  seated  on  the  stile,  (a 
favorite  seat  since  she  parted  with  Ben  Wilson  there,)  read 
ing  the  book  of  Esther. 
31* 


366  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

««  Debby !  Debby,  I  say !  what  have  you  trampoosed  away 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth  for,  when  you  knew  the  'Squire 
would  be  here  to  see  ye  ?  " 

"  Dear  me !  what  can  the  old  'Squire  want,  coming  here  to 
spoil  all  my  Sabbath  evenings?  I  am  vexed  enough  with 
him,  when  I  have  so  little  time  I  can  call  my  own!  "  and 
Debby's  face  does  wear  a  troubled  look,  as  she  closes  the  lids 
of  her  book,  and  follows  her  mother  to  the  house.  But  her 
good  nature  recovers  itself  before  she  enters  the  parlor,  and 
the  'Squire,  it  must  be  confessed,  looks  very  much  like  "a 
widower  bewitched,"  as  he  casts  his  eye  on  her  glowing  face 
and  graceful  figure. 

After  the  salutations  were  over,  the  'Squire  reseated  him 
self  by  the  window,  threw  one  leg  over  the  other,  and  con 
tinued  as  speechless  as  the  laird  of  Dumbiedikes,  gazing  at 
Debby  in  wondering  admiration. 

"  Had  you  a  good  sermon  from  Dr.  Green,  this  afternoon  ? " 
at  length  inquired  Debby. 

"Why  wasn't  Miss  Debby  there  to  judge  for  herself?" 
said  the  'Squire,  reversing  the  position  of  his  legs,  and  lean 
ing  toward  her  in  a  manner  which  he  designed  should  be  very 
expressive. 

"  I  am  not  often  a  truant,"  said  Debby,  smiling,  "  but  I  was 
tempted  to  visit  the  other  church,  for  the  first  time,  to-day.  I 
had  heard  much  of  their  young  pastor's  eloquence,  and  I  was 
not  disappointed." 

"  Ah !  Miss  Debby  must  not  be  a  lead  sheep  to  beguile  oth 
ers  from  the  true  fold,"  gently  chided  the  'Squire.  "  I  saw 
an  old  schoolmate  of  yours  looking  very  disappointed  when 
the  choir  arose,  and  you  were  missing." 

"  A  schoolmate ! "  echoed  Debby,  turning  very  red,  and 
looking  very  eager.  Then  dropping  her  eyes,  she  said  in  a 
saddened  tone,  "  You  allude  to  one  of  our  usual  church-goers, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  mean  young  Wilson,  who  is  home  on  a  visit." 

Poor  Debby !  the  glow  vanished  from  her  cheek,  she  was 
fearfully  pale,  and  several  minutes  elapsed  before  she  was  suf 
ficiently  herself  again,  to  be  aware  that  the  'Squire  was  stand- 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

ing  before  her,  laboring,  by  powerful  blasts  of  air  from  his 
glossy  beaver,  to  restore  vitality  to  her  nearly  exhausted  func 
tions. 

"  You  are  faint,  Miss  Debby." 

"  0,  not  at  all,  sir.  I  never  faint.  Your  efforts  are  entirely 
unnecessary.  I  beg  you  will  be  seated." 

"  At  your  side,  Miss  Debby  ? "  said  the  'Squire,  gaining 
courage  from  the  consciousness  of  his  generous  efforts  in  her 
behalf.  "  Beg  pardon,  Miss  Debby,  but  I  am  sure  you  were 
decidedly  pale  and  languid.  It  is  a  very  hot  day." 

"  Very,"  replied  Debby,  leaving  the  chair  at  his  side,  and 
seating  herself  in  the  one  he  had  vacated  at  the  window. 
This  manreuvre,  for  a  while,  discomposed  him ;  but  feeling 
the  necessity  of  resolute  action,  he  drew  his  chair  to  her  side 
again,  and  in  set  phrase,  well  conned  over,  made  her  a  legal 
tender  of  his  hand. 

Debby  was  too  much  accustomed  to  proposals  of  this  kind 
to  feel  much  surprise,  or  manifest  much  embarrassment.  But 
it  required  time  and  patience  to  convince  the  honest  'Squire 
that  his  suit  was  really  rejected ;  and  to  his  credit  be  it  told, 
a  few  unaffected  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks  as  he  pressed 
her  hand  in  his,  and  bade  her  a  kind  farewell.  "  My  home 
is  lonely,  Miss  Debby,  and  you  could  have  brightened  it;  but 
you  know  what  is  best  for  your  own  happiness,  and  I  shall 
always  pray  that  you  may  obtain  it.  Farewell !  " 

"  Farewell,  sir,  and  the  Lord  bless  you  !  "  replied  Debby, 
for  the  first  time  feeling  a  real  sympathy  for  her  kind-hearted 
wooer  ;  then  returning  to  her  seat  by  the  window,  she  watched 
his  retreat  across  the  plain,  musing  intently,  all  the  while,  on 
the  return  of  Ben  Wilson. 

"  I  am  glad  I  was  not  at  church,"  thought  she.  "  I  won 
der  how  he  looks  —  he  was  a  handsome  boy !  The  'Squire 
thought  he  was  disappointed  in  not  seeing  me.  Poor  man  ! 
he  judged  others  by  himself.  Six  long  years !  He  must 
have  forgotten  me.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  see  him  before  Be 
leaves  the  village."  These,  and  many  other  thoughts  passed 
through  Debby's  brain,  as  she  sat  gazing  on  the  western  sky, 
just  growing  scarlet  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 


368  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

Yes,  six  long  years  had  passed,  and  Ben  Wilson  had  worked 
busily  at  his  art,  never  once  allowing  himself  the  time  or  the 
expense  for  visiting  his  native  village,  till  now  his  name  stood 
honorably  among  the  most  promising  in  his  profession,  and  he 
could  meet  his  father  with  a  proud  consciousness  that  he  had 
proved  himself  worthy  of  his  praise.  In  his  first  letters  to  his 
parents,  he  had  sent  frequent  words  of  remembrance  to  his 
friend  Debby,  but  as  she  never  received  them,  and,  con 
sequently,  sent  none  in  return,  he  had  dropped  her  name  from 
his  epistles,  but  kept  it  all  the  more  sedulously  in  his  heart. 
When  he,  at  length,  returned  to  his  native  village,  he  was 
not  wholly  unprepared,  yet  was  grieved  to  the  soul,  to  hear 
that  Debby  was  on  the  eve  of  marriage  to  another. 

"  It  was  a  boyish  folly  to  fancy  that  she  cared  for  me,  and 
would  remember  me ! "  he  exclaimed  to  himself,  in  meditat 
ing  on  the  disappointment  of  his  long-cherished  dreams. 
"  She  was  but  a  little  girl  then,  —  dear  Debby  !  Well,  she 
may  have  changed,  —  they  say  she  has,  —  and  grown  hum 
drum  and  thrifty ;  in  that  case,  I  should  not  love  her ;"  and 
he  tried  to  console  himself  by  picturing  her  the  antipodes  of 
the  wayward  and  beautiful  playmate  of  his  school-days. 

"  She  was  all  poetry  and  romance  then,"  continued  his 
thoughts,  "  loving  nothing  so  well  as  running  in  the  woods, 
or  reading  novels  under  green  trees.  Now  she  makes  but 
ter  and  cheese,  patches  calico  quilts,  and  is  going  to  marry 
old  Hazlitt,  who  would  better  serve  for  her  grandfather !  Sic 
transit,  &c.,  heigh-ho !  Well,  1  have  but  one  mistress  now 
—  my  dear,  beautiful,  unmercenary  Art!  O,  I  will  love  it 
more  than  ever,  —  I  will  marry  it,  and  it  shall  know  no 
rival." 

With  this  heroic  resolution,  the  young  man  bent  his  steps 
toward  the  house  of  widow  Lincoln.  "  I  will  call  on  Debby, 
just  to  show  her  I  have  no  unfriendly  feelings,  and  that  I  still 
remember  her  as  the  favorite  of  my  childhood.  To  see  her  in 
her  metamorphosis  will  be  the  speediest  way  to  smother  these 
lurking  regrets.  I  wonder  why  she  was  not  at  church."  Just 
as  this  thought  was  reentering  his  mind,  he  encountered 
'Squire  Hazlitt,  on  his  return  from  his  unpropitious  wooing. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

"  Poor  old  man !  he  looks  as  though  he  had  not  recovered 
from  the  grief  of  his  wife's  loss,  yet,"  thought  our  artist, 
returning  a  courteous  bow  to  the  hurried  nod  of  the  widower. 
"  Ah,  Debby,  he  was  not  one  of  the  masked  and  victorious 
knights  in  the  chivalric  dreams  of  thy  girlhood  ! " 

In  the  door-yard,  he  met  Mrs.  Lincoln.  She  did  not  recog 
nize  him  till  he  announced  his  name,  and  inquired  after  his 
old  friend  Debby. 

"  Ah,  she  is  well  —  walk  in,  and  see  for  yourself,  sir." 

"  You  are  going  to  lose  her,  I  hear,"  said  Ben,  (we  like  the 
boy-name  best,)  choking  a  little,  as  he  put  the  question. 

"  Well,  it 's  for  her  good,  you  know,  so  I  shan't  complain," 
said  the  old  lady,  with  a  most  complacent  laugh,  and  giving 
him  an  expressive  wink. 

"  Certainly  not.  Her  good,  is  what  we  all  most  covet ;" 
and  leaving  the  old  woman  to  pursue  her  occupation  of  gath 
ering  chips,  he  entered  the  old-fashioned  porch,  and  with  a 
light  step,  he  traversed  the  hall  to  the  open  door  of  the  parlor. 
Debby  was  still  sitting,  as  we  left  her,  at  the  window,  watch 
ing  the  clouds,  and  pulling  into  bits  a  crimson  rose  she  held 
in  her  fingers. 

Ben  paused  and  gazed  at  her  —  the  humdrum  dairy-maid  ! 
Her  hair  was  parted  smoothly  from  her  forehead,  and  fell  in 
rich  curls  behind  her  ears  down  upon  her  throat.  A  few  wild 
flowers  were  twisted  among  the  braids  behind.  Her  soft, 
hazel  eyes,  lighted  with  memories  that  dewed  her  long  lashes 
with  tears,  were  fixed  with  a  rapt  gaze  upon  the  brilliant 
clouds  that  threw  back  a  requiting  glow  upon  her  fair,  dim 
pled  cheek.  Never  had  the  young  artist's  eyes  dwelt  on  such 
beauty! 

He  entered  the  room,  but  so  quietly  that  Debby's  trance 
was  not  disturbed.  He  stood  a  moment,  close  at  her  side, 
unperceived.  His  heart  beat  so  loudly,  he  thought  she  must 
hear  it,  and  he  spoke,  softly,  "  Debby  ! " 

She  started  up,  a  sweet  and  joyous  surprise  gushing  all 
over  her  face.  "  Why,  Ben ! "  she  exclaimed,  cordially  grasp 
ing  his  hand,  and  looking  up  with  a  flood  of  gladness  into  his 
face.  He  could  have  hugged  her  to  his  heart,  in  the  fervency 


370  PEOSE    SELECTIONS. 

of  his  emotions,  but  the  chilling-  thought  —  "  She  is  another's ! M 
—  penetrated  and  petrified  his  soul.  He  resigned  her  hand, 
and  murmuring  some  words  of  self-gratulation  at  meeting  her 
again,  took  the  seat  'Squire  Hazlitt  had  recently  vacated  at 
her  side. 

Poor  Debby !  how  she  felt !  She  had  pressed  his  hand, 
she  had  called  him  Ben,  and  he  was  justly  offended  at  her 
familiarity !  Blush  after  blush  poured  in  upon  her  face  and 
neck,  till  she  was  actually  obliged  to  hide  her  eyes  in  her 
handkerchief,  and  burst  into  tears.  Poor  Debby!  how 
ashamed  and  humiliated  she  felt,  and  how  sure  she  was  that 
he  would  despise  her! 

Her  friend  did  not  quite  understand  the  cause  of  her  emo 
tions,  but  there  was  something  very  consoling  to  him  in  the 
thought,  that  they  were  somehow  connected  with  himself,  and 
he  sat  without  saying  a  word,  until  she  had  conquered  her 
feelings,  and  was  apparently  calm. 

"  You  know  not  what  joy  it  affords  me  to  breathe  once 
more  the  air  of  my  own  valley,  the  sweetest  valley  in  the 
whole  world,  for  it  is  home.  I  never  have  loved,  never  can 
love  a  city ;  and  to  be  once  more  amid  the  scenes  of  my  boy 
hood,  with  my  early  friends  at  my  side,  to  gaze  once  more  on 
our  own  sunsets  —  ah,  Miss  Lincoln,  you  can  imagine,  from 
your  own  sympathies,  what  my  delight  must  be." 

Debby  had  not  yet  removed  her  handkerchief  from  her 
eyes,  and  she  dreaded  to  do  so,  for  fear  her  former  embarrass 
ment  would  return,  and  again  overpower  her.  Those  who 
have  never  been  similarly  affected  will  think  her  foolish ;  we 
can  only  say  they  are  happy  in  not  being  able  to  justify  her 
from  experience.  Ben  appreciated  her  feelings,  and  begged 
her  to  excuse  him  while  he  went  to  assist  her  mother,  whom 
he  saw  from  the  window,  bending  beneath  the  weight  of  her 
chip-basket.  He  made  his  errand  as  long  as  propriety  would 
admit,  by  chatting  with  the  old  lady,  and  entering  with  inter 
est  into  all  her  domestic  details.  Debby  had  opportunity  to 
recover  herself  and  assume  a  good  degree  of  dignity,  before 
he  resumed  his  seat.  She  made  no  allusion  to  her  emotion, 
not  knowing  what  apology  to  offer,  and  not  liking  to  confess 
the  truth. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  371 

"  You  find  many  changes  in  our  village  since  you  left,  I 
suppose,"  she  remarked,  anxious  to  find  some  foothold  for  her 
feelings  in  conversation. 

"  Yes,  many ;  though  not  generally  unpleasant  ones.  Most 
of  my  old  friends  are  settled  in  life,  married,  with  growing 
families,  and  apparently  prosperous.  These,  certainly,  are 
changes  to  which  I  can  easily  reconcile  myself.  Death  has 
made  few  ravages ;  I  must,  however,  regret  the  loss  of  my 
kind  old  friend,  Mrs.  Hazlitt.  I  met  the  'Squire  —  poor  man  ; 
—  as  I  came  this  way,  and  I  thought  his  grief  had  impressed 
itself  very  legibly  upon  his  honest  face." 

Wicked  Ben  !  how  deeply  he  thought  to  probe !  And 
Debby,  recalling  her  recent  interview  with  the  'Squire,  and  giv 
ing  her  own  interpretation  to  his  troubled  looks,  could  not  help 
blushing  deeply,  in  provoking  confirmation  of  Ben's  precon 
ceived  ideas  of  their  relationship.  Of  these  ideas,  however, 
she  had  no  suspicion,  or  she  would  have  speedily  annihilated 
them ;  and  so  Ben  was  left  to  blunder  on  in  his  foolish  misap 
prehension  of  her  feelings. 

"  Time  passes  more  carelessly  over  the  quiet  denizens  of 
the  country,  than  he  does  over  those  who  strive  in  the  tumults 
of  the  crowd,  I  fancy,"  said  Debby. 

"  If  you  allude  to  me,  Miss  Lincoln,  I  confess  he  has  used 
some  rude  chiselling  upon  the  outer  man ;  but  believe  me,  he 
has  touched  no  heart  so  lightly.  He  could  work  no  changes 
there,  while  it  was  shielded  by  this  dear  talisman  ;"  and  Ben 
drew  from  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat  the  little  song-book  he 
had  carried  there  so  long  and  faithfully,  and  turning  to  the 
blank  page,  showed  her,  in  his  boyish  hand-writing,  the  date 
of  their  parting,  with  these  additional  words,  "  A  keepsake 
from  dear  Debby." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  think  me  changed,"  he  continued,  after 
waiting  a  few  minutes  to  satisfy  himself  what  interpretation 
he  ought  to  give  to  the'  beautiful  confusion  painted  in  her 
expressive  face.  "  I  have  formed  a  different  opinion  of  your 
self.  You  seem  to  me  the  same  creature  of  impulse,  intellect, 
and  romantic  feeling,  that  you  used  to  be  when  we  played 
together  in  the  old  school-house,  and  when  we  parted  at  the 


372  PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

stile.  You  still  deck  your  hair  with  wild-flowers,  still  gaze  at 
beautiful  sunsets,  still  laugh,  and  still  cry,  just  as  my  sweet 
Debby  did,  long  ago !  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  for 
me,  and  yet  I  should  have  deeply  regretted  to  have  found  you 
converted  into  a  humdrum  housewife,  a  pattern  of  domestic 
thrift.  It  would  have  disturbed  the  harmony  of  your  life's 
drama.  You  have  always  seemed  to  me  a  bright  and  beauti 
ful  star ;  I  could  not  patiently  have  been  convinced  that  you 
were  a  mere  sky-rocket,  dazzling  for  a  few  brief  years,  to  sink 
down,  at  last,  in  utter  obscurity." 

"  Mr.  Wilson  is  unchanged  in  one  respect  —  he  still  knows 
how  to  natter." 

"  No,  I  do  not,  Debby  —  for  by  that  name  I  must  still  be 
privileged  to  call  you.  You  are  not,  you  never  were,  like 
those  around  you.  Your  qualities  possess  a  brilliancy  1  have 
never  witnessed  in  another,  and  a  brilliancy,  too,  that  owes 
nothing  to  art.  But  as  my  commendation  can  be  of  no  worth 
to  you,  I  will  begin  to  chide.  You  called  me  Mr.  Wilson, 
just  now.  True,  the  beard  has  grown  upon  my  cheek,  and 
my  voice  has  a  deeper  bass  than  when  we  parted ;  but  I  feel 
Ben's  heart  beating  within  my  bosom  yet,  and  if  there  is  any 
thing  I  may  claim  on  the  score  of  old  friendship,  it  is  that  you 
call  me  by  the  name  your  voice  has  taught  me  to  love.  '  Mr. 
Wilson,'  does  very  well  for  the  city  and  the  crowd,  but  my 
heart  has  been  leaping  up,  ever  since  I  left  New  York,  at  the 
thought  that  when  I  reached  home,  I  should  be  greeted  as 
'Ben'  once  more.  But  no;  father  calls  me  Benjamin,  and 
mother  calls  me  Benjamin,  and  the  villagers,  still  more 
respectful,  address  me  as  Mr.  Wilson;  still,  I  could  not  but 
indulge  a  secret  hope  that  Debby  would  call  me  Ben.  And 
so  you  did,  in  your  first  surprise,  but  I  find  you  have  stilted 
me  up  at  last  into  Mr.  Wilson,  like  all  the  rest." 

"Very  finely  it  sounds  for  you,  the  first  transgressor,  to 
reproach  me  for  adopting  your  own  reserve  !  Kemember  that 
Miss  Lincoln  is  quite  as  obnoxious  from  your  lips,  as  Mr. 
Wilson  can  be  from  mine." 

"  Well,  Debby,  it  was  not  a  fault  of  the  heart,  for  that  ever 
thinks  of  you  by  the  dearest  and  sweetest  name.  And  now, 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  373 

if  you  will  call  me  Ben,  we  shall  stand  pretty  nearly  upon  the 
same  footing  of  younger  days." 

"  I  do  call  you  Ben,  for  it  is  in  this  character  that  I  have 
ever  thought  of  you.  And  now  that  the  preliminaries  of  our 
intercourse  are  peaceably  settled,  permit  me  to  inquire  into  the 
character  of  your  fortunes  since  we  parted." 

As  Ben  went  into  a  somewhat  elaborate  detail  of  his  six 
years'  adventures,  our  readers  will  pardon  us  for  omitting  the 
remainder  of  their  interview.  It  passed  pleasantly  to  both, 
and  when  they  separated,  Ben's  heart  throbbed  with  bitterness 
at  the  thought  that  Debby  was  lost  to  him,  and  Debby's  with 
joy  that  Ben  had  returned  unchanged. 

The  next  day  —  our  narrative  proceeds  by  days  now  — 
while  Debby  was  performing  the  duties  of  the  laundry,  (we 
have  no  false  pride  about  our  heroine's  occupations,)  she  heard 
a  gentle  knock  at  the  door,  and  opening  it  with  some  trepida 
tion,  (for  what  if  it  should  be  Ben !)  she  was  relieved  by  the 
appearance  of  'Squire  Hazlitt.  Strange  to  tell,  the  'Squire 
was  dressed  in  his  Sunday  suit  of  bright  blue,  and  wore  his 
glossy  beaver. 

"  Your  pardon,  Miss  Debby,  for  calling  at  this  unseason 
able  hour.  I  intended  to  have  delivered  my  message  last 
evening,  but  circumstances  to  which  I  need  not  allude,  and  of 
a  nature  to  put  ordinary  thoughts  out  of  my  mind,  caused  me 
to  forget  it.  You  may  have  heard  that  there  is  to  be  a 
huckleberry^  party  to  Dob's  Hill,  this  afternoon.  I  should  not 
have  been  boy  enough  to  have  thought  of  going,  except  for 
Lucy  and  Mary,  who  would  give  me  no  peace  till  I  promised 
to  carry  them.  There  will  be  room  for  four  in  the  barouche, 
and  if  Miss  Debby  will  make  one  of  our  party,  I  need  not  say 
how  much  pleasure  it  will  afford  us  all." 

Debby  thanked  the  'Squire  very  cordially,  and  not  wishing 
to  pain  him  by  refusing  his  kind  invitation,  agreed  to  be  in 
readiness  at  the  specified  hour. 

Quite  a  sensation  it  created  among  the  party  assembled 
under  the  clump  of  trees  at  the  foot  of  Dob's  Hill,  when  'Squire 

*  Whortleberry. 
32 


374  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

Hazlitt  drove  up  his  prancing  grays,  with  a  barouche  full  of 
gay  young  ladies.  "  Who  are  they  ? "  inquired  Ben  W  ilson, 
who  stood  partly  behind  one  of  the  trees,  in  conversation 
with  Amanda  Burton. 

"  It 's  the  old  'Squire,  with  his  daughters,  Lucy  and  Mary, 
and  his  bride-elect,  Miss  Debby  Lincoln." 

"  That  marriage  is  a  settled  thing,  then,  is  it,  Miss  Bur 
ton?" 

"  0,  certainly.  The  lady  used  to  be  a  favorite  of  yours,  I 
believe,  Mr.  Wilson." 

"  It  was  of  no  use.  Wealth  will  bear  away  the  palm.  But 
it  is  a  pity  so  bright  a  jewel  should  be  mated  with  an  antique 
coin." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  very  good,  Mr.  Wilson.  You  have  lost  none  of 
your  former  wit,  I  see.  But  be  hist,  for  they  are  approach 
ing  us." 

Ben  bowed  coldly  to  Debby,  and  hastened  to  the  young 
ladies,  Lucy  and  Mary,  who  were  mere  children  when  he  left 
the  village.  ^Mary  Hazlitt  had  the  reputation  of  a  beauty,  and 
she  certainly  was  a  very  delicate  and  graceful  girl.  He  inter 
ested  himself,  therefore,  in  renewing  her  acquaintance ;  and 
through  the  whole  afternoon,  devoted  himself  to  her  almost 
exclusively. 

Poor  Debby !  All  the  beaux,  believing  that  she  belonged 
to  the  'Squire,  had  chosen  them  other  partners,  and  left  her 
sitting  alone  on  the  wall.  "  You  see  how  it  is,"  said  the 
kind-hearted  widower,  coming  to  her  relief;  "all  yield  consent 
to  my  claims  but  yourself.  Shall  I  go  and  tell  them  of  their 
mistake,  or  will  you  consent  to  receive  my  antiquated  gal 
lantries,  in  lieu  of  those  that  would  be  more  acceptable  ?  " 

"  0,  certainly,  'Squire,  with  the  understanding  that  now 
exists  between  us,  I  would  choose  your  attendance  in  prefer 
ence  to  that  of  any  gentleman  present."  And  Debby  spoke 
sincerely ;  for  she  was  vexed  at  Ben's  coldness,  and  would 
have  shrunk  from  the  attentions  of  any  other  young  man  of  the 
party.  Closely  by  her  side,  therefore,  hovered  the  'Squire, 
filling  her  basket  with  berries,  mounting  the  rocks  to  gather 
the  red  columbines  for  her  hair,  and  bringing  oak-leaves  and 


PKOSE    SELECTIONS.  375 

thorns  for  the  manufacture  of  sylvan  mantles,  in  which 
employment  he  industriously  assisted. 

"  Do  look ! "  exclaimed  his  lively  daughter  Mary  to  her 
companion,  Ben  Wilson ;  "  see  how  gallant  papa  has  become  ! 
I  declare,  he  is  braiding  flowers  in  my  fair  stepmother's  curls ! 
It  amuses  me  to  see  how  readily  he  assimilates  to  Debby's 
sentimentalisms.  Is  n't  it  astonishing  that  old  men  will  be  so 
bewitched  by  young  beauty?" 

"  How  can  you  ask  such  a  question  of  a  young  man,  who, 
of  course,  must  feel  the  witchery  even  more  acutely  ?  "  replied 
Ben,  with  a  complimentary  glance  at  the  pretty  face  of  Miss 
Mary.  "  I  hope  you  approve  of  your  father's  choice." 

"  Why,  if  father  must  marry  again,  I  had  as  lief  he  would 
take  Debby  as  another.  She  will  be  a  companion  for  Lucy 
and  me,  which  will  be  more  pleasant  than  to  be  under  the  juris 
diction  of  some  lynx-eyed  old  maid,  more  suited  to  father's 
years." 

About  sunset,  wearied  by  the  heat,  and  grieved  at  Ben's 
neglect,  Debby  descended  the  hill,  and  sat  down  alone  in  the 
shade  of  the  trees.  The  'Squire  had  tact  enough  to  perceive 
that  her  own  thoughts  would  be  as  agreeable  to  her  as  his 
company,  and  wisely  forbore  to  follow.  Ben,  however,  feeling 
that  he  had  been  unkindly  negligent,  availed  himself  of  the 
first  opportunity  to  escape  from  his  lively  companion,  and  Join 
the  dear  being  whom  it  was  idle  for  him  to  love,  but  who  was 
never  absent  from  his  thoughts. 

Debby,  unwilling  that  he  should  know  how  much  she  felt 
his  coldness,  replied  with  her  usual  cheerfulness  to  his  saluta 
tions,  and  when  he  asked  her  to  sing  him  one  of  the  old  songs 
which  delighted  his  boyhood,  she  broke  forth  in  a  voice  that 
thrilled  him  more  than  of  old,  and  without  one  foolish  apology, 
into  the  sweet  and  plaintive  strains  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 
Her  eyes  fell  on  his  at  the  close,  and  she  saw  they  were  full 
of  tears.  Blessed  witnesses  !  they  atoned  for  all  his  coldness, 
all  his  neglect ;  and  once  more  Debby  felt  that  he  was  un 
changed. 

"  See  what  I  have  found,"  said  he,  after  a  short  pause, 
during  which  he  had  been  playing  with  the  clover-leaves  on 


376  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

the  turf  where  he  sat.  "  A  sprig  of  four-leaved  clover !  Do 
you  remember,  Debby,  how  we  used  to  search  for  them  around 
your  door-step?  The  rhyme  ran,  'One,  two,  put  it  in  your 
shoe ;'  and  the  first  you  met,  you  were  doomed  to  wed ;  '  three, 
four,  put  it  over  the  door,'  and  the  first  who  entered  would  be 
the  spouse.  Do  you  remember?" 

"  O,  yes  ;  who  ever  forgets  things  like  those  ?" 

"  And  do  you  remember,  Debby,  that  I,  one  day,  gave  you 
a  '  four-leaf,'  and  made  you  promise  to  tell  me  the  name  of 
the  first  man  or  boy  who  went  beneath  it  ?  Do  you  remem 
ber  who  the  lucky  man  chanced  to  be  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  forgotten." 

"  It  was  'Squire  Ha/litt,  Debby.  And  when  you  protested 
against  my  raillery,  because  he  was  a  married  man,  I  told  you, 
laughingly,  nothing  was  more  probable  than  that  he  might  be 
a  widower,  some  day.  Do  you  remember,  Debby  ? " 

Just  as  she  was  about  to  reply,  and  dispel  the  illusion  under 
which  she  saw  he  was  laboring,  Mary  Hazlitt,  with  two  or 
three  other  wild  girls,  came  running  up  to  her  with  some  won 
derful  snake-story,  and  occupied  all  the  remaining  time  till 
they  separated  for  their  homes. 

Several  days  passed,  and  nothing  was  seen  of  the  young 
artist.  Debby  at  length  heard  the  painful  news  of  his  illness, 
and  of  the  dangerous  sickness  of  his  mother,  both  of  whom 
were  seized  with  a  prevailing  fever.  It  was  now  haying-time, 
and  farmers  and  farmers'  wives  were  alike  busy.  In  almost 
every  house,  too,  one  or  more  lay  ill.  Debby,  though  busy 
enough  at  home,  could  allow  none  of  her  neighbors  to  suffer 
for  want  of  assistance.  She  at  once  regulated  her  household 
affairs,  so  that  a  week's  absence  would  bring  no  serious  labor 
upon  her  mother  ;  and  tying  on  her  bonnet,  directed  her  steps 
to  the  house  of  Captain  Wilson.  She  was  joyfully  welcomed 
by  the  captain,  who  had  scoured  the  village  over  in  search  of 
a  nurse,  and  was  only  able  to  secure  one  old  woman,  who  was 
herself  too  infirm  to  be  of  much  service  to  others. 

Debby  at  once  took  her  station  by  the  bedside  of  Mrs.  Wil 
son,  who  was  alarmingly  ill.  Though  she  could  do  little  to 
lessen  the  disease  at  its  present  crisis,  she  was  capable,  in 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  377 

many  ways,  of  alleviating  its  discomforts,  and  rectifying  the 
evils  that  had  been  occasioned  by  a  want  of  necessary  attend 
ance.  Though  she  would  not  be  driven  from  her  more  suffer 
ing  patient,  Mrs.  Wilson's  entreaties  would  many  times  in  a 
day  prevail  on  her  to  visit  Ben's  apartment,  and  minister  to  his 
wants.  He,  in  turn,  though  it  cost  him  no  slight  effort,  wbuld 
hasten  her  back  to  watch  over  his  mother ;  and  so  she  passed, 
like  a  beneficent  angel,  from  one  couch  to  another,  soothing 
the  pains  and  anxieties  of  the  invalids,  and  obstinately  regard 
less  of  her  own  weariness. 

One  day,  when  Mrs.  Wilson  slept,  Debby  stole  into  the  par 
lor  for  a  book.  On  a  table  lay  a  portfolio,  containing  a  few 
pictures.  She  stopped  to  examine  them.  The  first  was  en 
titled  "  The  Rustic  Novel-Reader,  from  a  painting  by  Benj. 
Wilson."  What  was  Debby's  surprise  and  emotion,  to  recog* 
nize  her  own  figure,  in  the  s'imple  costume  of  early  girlhood, 
standing  by  the  well-curb,  with  one  hand  dipping  the  bucket, 
and  with  the  other  holding  open  the  pages  of  a  tattered  novel ! 
A  few  glances  at  this,  and  she  took  up  the  second,  —  "  The 
Boudoir  of  the  Cottage-Girl,  from  a  painting  by  B.  Wilson." 
It  was  but  another  scene  in  her  early  life,  where  she  lay,  with 
her  garlanded  head  resting  on  her  hand,  reading  a  favorite 
volume,  while  above  her  sang  the  birds,  and  around  her 
bloomed  the  flowers.  The  third  and  last  had  a  still  more 
engrossing  interest.  It  was  their  parting  at  the  stile.  The 
painter  had  chosen  the  moment  when  she  placed  the  song- 
book  in  his  hand ;  and  Debby  thought  he  had  given  a  very 
flattering  beauty  to  her  face.  It  was  less  flattering  than  thy 
mirror,  Debby ! 

"  How  can  Ben  be  so  unjust  to  me,"  thought  she  closing 
the  portfolio,  "  as  to  suppose  I  am  going  to  marry  the  old 
Squire!  His  own  heart  might  have  taught  him  better." 

Mrs.  Wilson  had  now  passed  the  crisis  of  her  disease,  and 
was  rapidly  recovering ;  but  Ben  was  daily  growing  worse. 
Mrs.  Wilson's  maternal  alarm  would  permit  her  to  receive  no 
further  attentions  from  Debby,  whom  she  stationed  constantly 
at  her  son's  bedside  ;  and  surely  the  poor  girl  had  need  of  few 
entreaties  to  remain  there  while  Ben  was  in  such  evident 
32* 


378  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

peril.  A  mother's  care  could  not  have  been  more  assiduous 
and  unwearying  than  hers  ;  but  for  several  days  her  patient 
had  not  the  slightest  consciousness  of  her  presence,  though  he 
often,  in  his  delirium,  murmured  Debby's  name. 

But  Ben  was  not  fated  to  die  under  such  skilful  nursing, 
and  ere  a  week  had  gone  by,  he  was  happily  convalescent. 
"  O,  I  have  had  such  strange  dreams,  Debby ! "  said  he,  one  fine 
morning,  holding  out  his  hand  to  her  as  she  entered  the  room  ; 
"and  I  am  sure,  under  Heaven,  I  owe  my  life  to  you.  How 
patiently  you  have  tended  me  !  and  your  cheek  has  grown 
pale,  very  pale,  Debby  dear,  since  I  saw  you  at  Dob's  Hill. 
I  fear  we  must  send  you  home  to  recruit,  for  you  will  never 
rest  while  you  remain  with  us.  How  can  we  sufficiently 
thank  you  for  your  kindness  these  many  wearisome  days  past  ? 
Mother  has  been  in  to  see  me,  this  morning,  and  has  talked 
of  nothing  but  your  excellent  nursing.  I  must  paint  another 
picture  when  I  return  to  New  York,  and  what  shall  I  call  it, 
Debby  ?  —  Sit  down  here  by  the  bed,  and  throw  aside  your 
bonnet.  —  I  want  this  rose,  unless  it  was  a  gift  from  the  'Squire. 
May  I  have  it,  Debby '?"  and  he  disengaged  from  her  scarf  a 
fresh-blown  bud,  still  moist  with  dew.  But  as  he  did  so,  it 
became  entangled  in  a  small  riband  worn  upon  her  neck,  and 
before  she  could  extricate  it,  he  had  drawn  out  from  its  hiding- 
place  a  braided  ring  of  chestnut  hair,  which  was  attached  to 
the  end  of  it,  and  now  fell  upon  his  hand. 

The  color  rushed  into  his  pale  lips  and  cheeks.  "  Ah,  Debby, 
Debby  ! "  he  exclaimed,  seizing  the  hand  that  would  have  re 
claimed  its  treasure  ;  "  the  'Squire's  hair  is  gray  !  Tell  me  if 
this  be  not  the  lock  I  twined  around  your  wrist  at  our  parting  ? 
Tell  me,  dear  Debby  ! " 

Silly  girl !  she  betrayed  herself  by  her  blushes,  notwith 
standing  she  turned  her  head  aside  till  Ben  could  see  nothing 
but  her  crimson  ear  and  neck.  There  was  confession,  too,  in 
the  very  trembling  of  her  hand. 

"  Dear  Debby,  do  say  you  are  not  going  to  marry  the  old 
'Squire." 

"  If  you  were  not  sick,  Ben,  I  would  give  you  a  serious 
scolding  for  having  given  a  moment's  belief  to  such  a  ridicu- 


PROSE   SELECTIONS.  379 

lous  report.  Your  '  Queen  of  Beauty '  crowns  no  other  knight 
than  the  one  she  did  of  old,"  said  Debby,  timidly,  at  the  same 
time  lifting  a  pretty  chaplet  of  myrtle  and  roses  from  the  table 
where  she  had  laid  it,  and  binding  it  playfully  around  the 
invalid's  brow. 

Happy  Ben  !  How  rapidly  he  recovered  on  the  elixir  of 
Debby's  love  !  And  how  bright  the  remaining  hours  of  his 
convalescence  became  with  dreams  of  the  time  when  she 
whose  beauty  had  animated  his  pictures,  and  won  him  a  good 
part  of  the  distinction  he  already  enjoyed,  should  be  not  only 
the  inspiring  genius  of  his  studio,  but  the  presiding  divinity 
at  his  hearthstone. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

"  There  !  that  will  do,"  says  Hal,  who  has  been  following 
my  story  page  by  page.  "Leave  us  to  imagine  the  widow's 
surprise,  Debby's  happiness,  and  all  the  details  of  the  wedding 
and  the  settlement.  I  like  your  story  pretty  well,  sis,  but  I 
am  afraid  the  critics  will  complain  of  it  for  wanting  a  moral." 

I  have  not  written  for  a  moral,  Hal,  but  to  depict  a  charac 
ter,  and  illustrate  village  life  in  its  loveliest  and  most  poetic 
guise.  Many  a  flower,  as  bright  and  beautiful  as  Debby, 
emits  a  life  of  sweetness  in  the  glens  and  cottage-homes  of 
our  country ;  and  pleasant  the  task  to  me,  Hal,  to  bring  them 
out  to  the  sunshine  of  such  gentle  sympathies  as  have  fol 
lowed  the  life  of  our  sweet  Debby  from  the  undisciplined 
romance  of  early  girlhood,  up  to  its  crowning  glory  of  tested 
truth  and  requited  love. 

1844. 


THE   DEFORMED  BOY. 

IT  was  one  of  those  soft,  golden  days  of  autumn,  which  seem 
like  returns  of  Eden,  that  a  party  of  young  persons  assembled 
in  an  open  field  for  the  purpose  of  hop-gathering.  Nothing 
could  make  a  prettier  rural  picture  than  this  grouping  of  bright- 
eyed  girls  and  gay  young  beaux  beneath  the  large  arbor  they 
had  formed  of  the  graceful  and  luxuriant  vines.  There  was 


380  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

scarce  a  girl  among  them  that  had  not  some  green  sprig  or 
purple  aster,  or  crimson  cardinal-flower  twisted  among  her 
silken  locks ;  scarce  a  boy  that  wore  not  in  his  straw  hat  a 
drooping  cluster  of  hops,  or  a  bright  plume  of  golden-rod. 

Protected  from  the  sun  by  their  canopy  of  vines,  and  fanned 
by  the  breeze  that  rustled  through  it  from  the  neighboring 
woodland,  nothing  could  be  pleasanter  than  their  rustic  employ 
ment.  So  many  diversions,  too,  were  contrived  to  lessen  its 
monotony !  One  told  the  tale  of  Cinderella,  a  hundred  times 
heard  before,  yet  ever  interesting  and  ever  new ;  another  sang 
one  of  Burns'  little  songs,  so  appropriate  for  a  scene  of  rural 
labor  and  festivity ;  the  pitcher  of  cool  root  beer  was  brought, 
and  handed  about;  old  jokes  were  revived,  and  laughed  at  as 
heartily  as  though  now  for  the  first  time  invented ;  a  sly  kiss 
was  stolen  by  some  roguish  boy  from  the  strawberry  lips  of 
the  maiden  at  his  side ;  and  then,  to  check  the  uproarious 
merriment,  a  ghost  story,  such  as  Tarn  O'Shanter  reduced  to 
prose,  or  the  old  ballad  of  "  Margaret's  Ghost,"  was  related 
with  due  solemnity  by  some  damsel,  whose  story-telling  talent 
made  amends  for  the  homeliness  of  her  face. 

Among  the  party  was  one  who,  though  sharing  cheerfully 
in  these  sports,  did  so  more  through  benevolent  sympathies 
than  from  any  hearty  gayety  of  feeling.  He  was  a  lad  about 
fifteen  years  of  age,  possessing  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most 
intelligent  faces  in  the  world,  but  bearing  in  his  person  the 
curse  of  incurable  deformity.  All  were  kind  to  him,  and  all 
loved  him,  but  neither  their  kindness  nor  their  love  could  drive 
away  the  sadness  at  his  heart.  It  was  not  merely  his  deform 
ity  that  made  him  miserable ;  it  was  the  feeling  that  he  was 
spiritually  alone  in  the  world ;  that  the  sympathy  of  his  race 
was  for  his  misfortune,  and  not  for  those  high  aspirations  and 
holy  emotions  which  were  shrouded  in  his  weak,  misshapen 
frame. 

There  was,  however,  one  in  that  merry  group  who  knew 
him  better  than  he  thought.  This  was  Ellen  Mayland,  the 
daughter  of  our  late  physician ;  a  girl  noted  in  Newburg  for 
the  sweetness  of  her  temper,  and  the  warmth  of  her  attach 
ments.  She  had  known  Otis  Wendell  all  his  lifetime,  and 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  381 

was  one  of  the  earliest  supporters  of  his  little  hobbling,  awk 
ward  steps.  The  attachment  formed  between  them  then,  had 
been  a  lasting  one ;  but  Ellen,  quite  a  woman  now,  saw  much 
less  of  him  than  when  they  were  schoolmates  together,  and 
used  to  sit  under  the  green  oak  during  the  long  summer  noon 
time,  telling  each  other  stories  of  fairies,  and  crying  over  the 
hapless  fate  of  the  "  Children  in  the  Wood."  Otis  feared  that, 
now  she  had  become  a  beautiful  young  lady,  she  would  no 
longer  interest  herself  in  the  poor  little  deformed  boy  who 
claimed  her  childish  compassion.  Tears  came  into  his  eyes 
when,  at  the  close  of  the  day,  he  saw  her,  with  others,  tie  on 
her  bonnet,  and  prepare  to  depart.  Instead  of  joining  the  com 
pany,  however,  she  turned  to  him,  and  said,  "  It  is  not  night 
yet,  by  an  hour  or  more.  Let  us  have  one  of  our  old  sittings 
under  the  green  tree.  You  know  we  used  to  be  often  together 
at  twilight,  watching  the  red  rays  die  off  from  the  hill-top. 
Go  down  with  me  to  the  old  chestnut,  and  we  can  see  them 
now,  as  beautiful  as  ever." 

Otis  grasped  her  hand.  "  O,  Ellen,  it  will  make  me  too 
happy ! " 

The  "  old  chestnut"  was  the  pride  of  our  village,  being  of 
enormous  size,  and  growing  in  one  of  the  pleasantest  spots 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Kattequissim.  Its  roots  ran  along  partly 
above  the  surface  of  the  ground,  and  were  covered  with  beau 
tiful  green  moss,  that  was  kept  constantly  fresh  by  the  trickling 
water  welling  up  near  the  base  of  the  trunk.  Here,  upon  a 
dry  spot  of  turf,  the  young  friends  found  a  seat. 

"  Now  lay  your  little  weary  head  upon  my  knee,  Otis,  and 
tell  me  why  you  have  not  felt  happy,  to-day." 

He  hid  his  beautiful  face  upon  the  folds  of  her  dress,  kissed 
them  rapturously,  and  then,  lying  down  so  that  he  might  gaze 
up  into  her  eyes,  rested  his  golden  curls  and  glowing  cheek 
up:>n  her  knee,  as  she  desired.  "  How  could  you  know  I  was 
not  happy,  Ellen  ?  Did  I  not  laugh,  and  sing,  and  tell  stories, 
as  much  as  any  one  of  the  party  ?" 

"  As  much,  but  not  as  heartily.  Your  gayety,  to-day,  had 
no  soul.  Now  tell  me,  are  you  sick,  or  only  sad  ?" 

"  You  know  I  am  never  well,  Ellen,  never  quite  well ;  and 


382  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

I  think  these  poor  feelings  often  make  me  gloomy  when  I 
ought  to  be  gay.  But,  O,  I  felt  so  lonely,  to-day  !  There 
was  so  much  in  my  soul  that  no  one  sympathizes  with,  that 
no  one  understands." 

"  But  you  will  find  sympathy  as  you  grow  older.  A  very 
richly-endowed  spirit  is  always  lonely  and  unappreciated  in 
its  youth,  being  far  in  advance  of  the  generation  with  which 
its  years  would  class  it,  and  yet  too  modest  and  shrinking  to 
claim  fellowship  with  the  ripe  spirits  that  precede  it  only  in 
age.  But  in  a  few  years,  Otis,  your  mind  will  grow  so  bold 
and  strong,  it  cannot,  like  a  little  bird,  sit  any  longer  in  its 
greenwood  nest,  but  will  soar  up  into  the  eye  of  day,  where 
all  men  can  see  and  admire  it.  Then  you  will  have  friends 
among  the  good  and  great;  you  will  no  longer  feel  lonely." 

"  Dear  Ellen,  your  voice  has  been  so  long  my  oracle,  I  am 
half  tempted  to  believe  everything  it  predicts.  But  you  forget 
the  great  obstacle  that  lies  in  my  way.  My  soul  might  fly 
but  for  the  clog  of  this  poor  body.  I  do  not  murmur  at  my 
lot,  Ellen,  yet  I  sometimes  feel  like  a  caged  lion,  strong  and 
furious,  but  ah,  so  helpless,  so  desolate,  so  full  of  a  great 
ambition  that  can  never  be  satisfied  !  Who  ever  regards  me 
as  anything  but  a  being  to  be  pitied  and  protected,  but  whose 
life  must  be  always  a  burden  to  himself  and  a  curse  to  his 
friends  ?  And  yet,  Ellen,  I  have  a  soul  within  me  which  tells 
me  that  I  was  made  to  act,  and  not  to  suffer ;  to  minister  to 
the  multitude,  instead  of  living  upon  their  charity.  You  will 
think  me  vain  and  foolish,  I  fear ;  but  if  I  am  so,  you  have 
more  power  than  any  one  else  to  correct  and  improve  me. 
Do  so,  Ellen.  Be  my  monitor.  Teach  me  how  to  conform 
myself  to  my  low  and  miserable  condition." 

The  poor  boy  clasped  his  hands,  and  looked  up  into  her 
face  with  an  expression  so  sorrowful  and  beseeching,  it  drew 
the  tears  from  her  eyes.  She  bent  over  and  touched  his  fore 
head  with  her  lips. 

"  Dear  Otis,  I  am  going  to  make  you  happy,  if  you  will  but 
promise  to  place  yourself  in  my  power,  and  do  whatever  I  bid 
you.  Will  you  promise  ?" 

"  Promise  ?  Yes,  anything,  everything  that  you  wish.  I 
am  yours.  Do  what  you  will  with  me." 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  383 

"  Well,  this  is  my  plan.  You  must  go  home  to  your 
parents,  and  get  their  consent  that  you  shall  come  and  live 
with  mother  and  me.  You  shall  join  Mr.  Elliot's  classes  in 
Greek  and  Latin,  and  hecome,  what  I  know  you  wish  to  be,  a 
scholar.  I  have  a  little  fortune  that  is,  at  present,  lying  use 
less  on  my  hands.  This  I  am  going  to  invest  in  your  educa 
tion.  Now,  don't  look  so  wild,  dear  Otis,  as  though  you 
thought  this  intention  of  mine  anything  out  of  the  ordinary 
range  of  kindness.  I  have  consulted  mother,  and  she  con 
sents  ;  and  you  know  I  shall  never  be  easy  or  satisfied  till  my 
plan  is  fulfilled." 

Otis  heard  this  proposition  with  the  profoundest  surprise 
and  emotion.  "  Are  you  really  in  earnest,  Ellen  ?  If  so,  I 
must  be  in  earnest,  too,  and  tell  you  that  I  cannot  be  so  selfish 
as  to  consent  to  your  plans.  What !  Ellen ;  do  all  this  for 
me,  who  dare  not  hope  to  repay  you  one  half  the  kindness  you 
have  already  shown  me  ?  " 

"  Otis,  you  must  consent.  You  are  my  brother.  My  heart 
has  adopted  you.  I  wish  your  life  to  be  a  useful  and  a  happy 
one.  To  be  useful,  you  must  be  active.  Nature  has  forbidden 
you  to  be  so,  physically,  yet  in  proportion  as  she  has  disabled 
your  body,  she  has  endowed  your  mind.  Now  ask  your  con 
science,  whether  you  will  so  nearly  fulfil  your  duty  by  deny 
ing  yourself  the  advantages  of  education  through  fear  of 
wronging  me,  as  you  will  by  availing  yourself  of  the  means 
offered  to  render  yourself  widely  useful  in  the  world.  Sup 
posing  you  never  repay  me,  in  any  way.  I  shall  not  suffer 
by  it.  I  have  health,  strength,  and  a  love  of  industry.  It 
would  make  me  a  thousand  times  happier  to  give  all  I  have  to 
you,  without  thought  of  recompense,  than  to  be  the  mistress 
of  a  million,  if  I  could  not  bestow  it  as  I  pleased.  Do  not 
deny  me  my  will,  Otis.  You  said,  a  few  moments  since,  that 
you  were  mine,  and  that  I  might  do  with  you  as  I  chose.  I 
hold  you  to  that  promise.  You  shall  come  into  our  family, 
and  remain  with  us  till  you  are  prepared  for  college ;  and  O, 
my  dear  brother,  will  we  not  be  happier  than  we  have  been 
before,  dwelling  under  the  same  roof,  studying  from  the  same 
books,  and  trying  every  day  to  grow  wiser  and  better  ?  Can 
you  resist  my  entreaties  ?  " 


384  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

"  0,  no,  Ellen,  I  cannot.  God  forgive  me  if  I  do  wrong  in 
accepting  such  a  great  sacrifice  as  you  will  make  for  me ;  but 
your  prayers  are  a  law  that  I  have  no  power  to  disobey. 
I  am  your  brother;  and  I  will  cheerfully  owe  everything  to 
you.  God  grant  I  may  become  all  you  hope  or  wish !  God 
grant  I  may  prove  worthy  of  your  affection  !  With  your  eyes 
looking  into  mine,  I  half  forget  I  am  not  in  paradise.  All  the 
angels  do  not  live  in  heaven.  All  the  bliss  is  not  enjoyed 
there.  I  can  now  realize  something  of  the  glories  and  joys  of 
the  upper  world.  There  all  are  good  and  beautiful  like  you  ; 
no  wonder  they  say  it  is  a  happy  place." 

Abstracted  from  all  the  world  around  them,  full  of  happy 
and  holy  feelings,  the  young  friends  noted  not  the  fall  of  the 
dew  and  the  increasing  dimness  of  the  twilight.  They  were 
aroused  by  a  footstep  near  them.  A  person  approached,  whom 
Ellen  recognized  as  Mr.  Elliot,  the  teacher  of  Greek  and  Latin 
whom  she  had  mentioned  to  Otis. 

"  I  fear,  Miss  Ellen,"  he  said,  very  kindly,  "  I  fear  you  have 
been  thinking  more  of  poetry  and  sentiment  than  of  health,  in 
remaining  so  late  abroad.  I  just  came  from  your  mother,  who 
is  quite  uneasy  about  you.  Will  you  not  take  my  arm,  and 
return  ?  Otis,  my  dear  boy,  you  shall  lean  upon  the  other. 
Forgive  me  for  interrupting  your  interview.  I  did  not  know 
you  were  together." 

Otis  declined  the  proffered  assistance,  and  bidding  Ellen 
good-night,  took  another  path  toward  the  village.  "  How 
much  that  poor  boy  loves  you,  Ellen,"  remarked  Mr.  Elliot, 
as  he  quitted  their  sight. 

"  Not  more  than  I  love  him,"  replied  Ellen.  "  He  has  one 
of  the  noblest  souls  and  truest  hearts  in  the  world ;  but  how 
little  is  he  appreciated  !  The  world  cruelly  wrongs  those  who 
are  physically  unfortunate,  by  looking  upon  them  as  objects 
of  pity,  merely,  when  they  may  have  intellect  of  the  loftiest 
order  waiting  only  to  be  encouraged  to  put  forth  glorious 
developments.  This  is  the  case  with  Otis.  He  is  painfully 
sensitive  to  his  misfortune,  and  has  felt  chained  down  by  it  to 
helpless  desolation.  I  have,  been  trying  to  cheer  and  uplift 
his  spirit,  to-night.  I  believe  I  have  succeeded." 


PROSE   SELECTIONS.  385 

"  As  you  always  must,  Ellen,  in  everything  you  attempt. 
A  dark  heart  must  that  be  which  would  not  be  cheered  by 
your  encouragement." 

"  I  have  been  persuading  Otis,"  she  continued,  "  to  join 
your  classes  in  the  languages.  He  has  consented." 

"  Indeed  !  with  what  view  did  you  counsel  it  ?  I  had  sup 
posed  his  parents  too  indifferent  to  his  fate  to  make  great  sac 
rifices  for  his  education ;  and,  with  their  poverty,  it  must  re 
quire  great  sacrifices  to  pay  the  expense  of  a  collegiate  course." 

"  His  parents,  it  is  true,  have  little  feeling  for  him.  They 
cannot  appreciate  the  jewel  God  has  given  them  in  that  mis 
shapen  casket.  But  he  has  friends  who  know  him  better,  and 
who  are  willing  to  do  everything  in  their  power  to  assist  him. 
If  his  parents  do  not  object,  he  will  join  your  classes  next 
week ;  and  his  home  he  will  find  beneath  my  mother's  roof, 
who  has  the  kindest  affection  for  him,  and  regards  him  almost 
as  a  child  of  her  own." 

"  This  will  be  a  kindness  to  me,  as  well  as  to  Otis.  Much 
as  you  seek  to  disguise  your  favors  to  me,  my  heart  perceives 
and  appreciates  them.  This  is  the  twelfth  scholar  you  have 
obtained  for  me,  Ellen.  Two  months  I  struggled  on  with  but 
four ;  now  I  have  twenty.  O,  you  are  everybody's  good 
angel ! " 

Ellen  deserved  this  praise.  In  yielding  assistance  or  relief, 
none  was  so  active  and  willing  as  she.  When  Mr.  Elliot 
came  to  Newburg,  and  she  learned  that  he  had  been  obliged 
to  give  up  his  studies  on  account  of  ill  health,  and  that  he 
was  poor,  and  had  no  friends  to  assist  him,  all  her  benevolent 
feelings  were  excited,  and  she  went  about  among  her  acquaint 
ances  to  arouse  their  sympathies  in  his  behalf.  He  opened  a 
school  in  the  village,  and  Ellen  had  been  unwearied  in  her 
efforts  to  procure  him  patronage.  He  was  now  much  encour 
aged.  His  health  was  every  day  improving,  and  his  school 
becoming  more  prosperous.  Can  it  be  wondered  that  he 
called  Ellen  a  "  good  angel  ? " 

It  may  be  supposed  that  Otis  did  not  drink  sparingly  of  the 
fountain  of  knowledge  that  was  laid  open  to  him.  He  de 
voured  books  with  a  most  unhealthy  appetite.  He  pored  over 
33 


386  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

them  till  his  eyes  grew  large  and  bright,  and  his  cheek  hollow 
and  fevered.  The  spirit  within  him  seemed  consuming  its 
shrine.  Ellen  saw  the  danger,  and  with  her  customary  res 
olution,  interposed.  At  first,  she  gently  cautioned  him ;  but 
finding  this  ineffectual,  she  spoke  out  more  decidedly.  She 
reminded  him  of  his  resolution  to  become  a  benefactor  to 
man ;  to  acquire  knowledge  as  an  intellectual  lever  whereby 
to  raise  the  world.  Instead  of  that,  he  was  making  a  revel  of 
his  studies ;  he  was  pursuing  them  to  an  unhealthy  excess ; 
already  had  they  intoxicated  him.  His  brain  no  longer 
clearly  perceived  the  path  of  duty,  but  was  intent  only  on 
self-indulgence.  At  this  reproof,  Otis  wept,  and  fell  on  his 
knees  at  Ellen's  feet,  promising  to  be  guided  only  by  her. 
She  did  not  abuse  her  power.  Tenderly  soothing  him,  as  a 
mother  would  soothe  a  nervous  child,  she  brought  him  back 
to  temperance  and  calm  reflection. 

Two  years  went  by,  and  Mr.  Elliot  having  partially  recov 
ered  his  health,  and  completed  the  study  of  divinity,  received, 
at  the  marriage  altar,  the  gentle  hand  of  Ellen  Mayland. 

Very  soon  after  her  marriage,  Otis  left  Newburg  to  enter 
upon  his  collegiate  studies.  We  select  one  from  among  the 
many  letters  that  he  addressed  to  Ellen  during  his  residence 
at  Cambridge.  It  was  written  when  he  had  been  there  about 
one  year. 

"  Cambridge,  June  7,  1790. 

"DEAR  ELLEN:  —  Your  letter  came  when  I  was  down 
hearted,  and  revived  me.  How  precious  were  its  eloquent 
words  of  encouragement !  Bless  you,  my  more  than  sister, 
that  amid  all  your  numerous  and  peculiar  duties,  as  a  wife, 
mother,  and  the  companion  of  a  Christian  pastor,  you  still 
continue  to  interest  yourself  so  warmly  in  my  success.  I 
never  can  forget  how  much  I  am  your  debtor. 

"  Because  I  speak  of  being  down-hearted,  you  must  not  sup 
pose  I  find  myself  unhappy  here.  I  have  many  warm  friends 
who  do  much  to  encourage  and  improve  me.  And  books  are 
inexhaustible  companions.  I  appreciate  them  more  truly 
every  day  that  I  live.  But  my  aim  is  not  enjoyment  merely. 
I  have  something  to  do  in  the  world,  and  my  object  here  is  to 
acquire  intellectual  power  to  fit  me  for  my  duties.  Others 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  387 

may  strive  for  college  honors,  I  will  strive  for  your  approba 
tion,  and  to  qualify  myself  for  future  usefulness  in  the  woild. 
When  I  was  younger,  Ellen,  I  used  to  mourn  over  my  phys 
ical  misfortune ;  but  now  I  rather  congratulate  myself  upon 
it,  it  throws  me  so  entirely  upon  my  inward  strength.  If  I 
had  the  form  of  Apollo,  I  might  be  meditating  how  to  display 
it  most  strikingly  in  the  circles  of  fashion ;  but  now  my 
thoughts  are  wholly  devoted  to  the  means  of  making  my  men 
tal  power  counterbalance  my  bodily  infirmity.  I  owe  much 
of  my  present  healthy  frame  of  mind  to  your  gentle  and 
judicious  counsel.  Indeed,  Ellen,  what  do  I  not  owe  to  you  ? 

"  You  wish  to  know  whether  I  have  yet  decided  on  a  profes 
sion.  Yes,  Ellen,  I  will  be  a  lawyer !  You  will,  perhaps,  at 
first,  be  disposed  to  doubt  whether  this  opens  to  me  the  broad 
est  sphere  of  usefulness.  You,  the  young  wife  of  a  clergy 
man,  will,  of  course,  look  with  peculiar  favor  upon  the  sacred 
profession.  Or,  perhaps,  you  will  recall  the  extensive  useful 
ness  and  benevolence  of  your  father,  and  advise  me  to  engage 
in  the  practice  of  the  healing  art.  I  disparage  neither  of 
these  callings,  Ellen,  but  my  path  is  to  the  courts  of  earthly 
justice.  Shall  I  tell  you  in  what  manner  I  hope  to  make  my 
self  useful  ?  If  there  are  poor  men  oppressed  by  the  power 
ful,  I  will  defend  and  relieve  them ;  if  rich  men  commit 
wrongs  against  the  destitute  and  helpless,  I  will  rebuke  them  ; 
I  will  endeavor  to  conform  human  law  to  Divine  law,  and 
persuade  men  to  carry  their  religion  about  them  in  their 
everyday  life.  Wherever  I  find  public  vice,  injustice,  and 
fraud,  there  will  I  work  with  a  bold  heart,  and  tireless  zeal, 
till  virtue,  justice,  and  integrity,  are  substituted  in  their  place. 
Ellen,  if  God  will  but  bless  my  efforts,  my  life  shall  not  be 
fruitlessly  spent.* 

"  Every  day  that  I  remain  in  college,  I  grow  more  in  love 
with  mankind.  The  good  traits  of  human  nature  are  con 
stantly  revealing  themselves  to  me.  My  misfortune,  which  I 

*  The  sentiments  of  this  paragraph  are  not  fiction.  Story- writers  have 
sometimes  been  charged  with  giving  too  bright  a  coloring  to  their  charac 
ters.  Have  those  who  make  this  charge  ever  by  kind  words  and  true  sym 
pathies  unlocked  the  hearts  of  the  good  and  gifted,  and  counted  the  treasures 
of  noble  feeling  and  elevated  motive  that  lie  hid  within  ?  If  so,  how  can 
they  call  fiction  an  exaggerated  copy  of  nature  ?  It  seldom  equals  it. 


388  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

once  supposed  would  be  a  perpetual  misery  to  me,  has  served 
me  as  an  "  open  sesame  "  into  the  hearts  of  all  with  whom  I 
associate.  I  wish  you  could  know  them,  Ellen,  they  are  so 
kind  to  me.  But  kind  as  they  are,  they  can  never  equal  you. 
No,  my  dear  friend,  you  will  always  remain  queen  of  my  heart! 
"  Thank  you  for  giving  that  little  one  my  name.  May  he 
do  it  greater  honor  than  I  ever  can  hope  to  !  Every  morning, 
Ellen,  I  pray  for  your  happiness,  and  every  evening  meditate 
on  your  goodness.  God  bless  your  husband  and  child  ;  and, 
O,  my  dear  friend,  most  devoutly  do  I  pray,  God  bless  you 
forever ! 

"  Your  most  grateful  and  affectionate  OTIS." 

While  our  hero  is  quietly  pursuing  his  studies,  we  will 
return  to  our  friend  Ellen,  at  Newburg.  Four  or  five  years 
of  her  wedded  life  passed  happily  away ;  two  sweet  children 
brightened  her  home,  and  in  the  love  of  her  husband,  and  the 
friendship  of  his  parishioners,  she  found  the  claims  of  her 
heart  fully  answered. 

But  gradually  her  husband's  health  began  to  fail;  and 
month  after  month  wore  away,  bringing  no  encouragement  or 
relief.  At  length  he  was  obliged  to  suspend  his  pastoral  du 
ties,  and  give  himself  up  to  the  cares  of  the  nurse  and  the 
physician.  His  disease  was  a  lingering  pulmonary  affection, 
which  devoured  him,  as  it  were,  by  inches.  Ellen  thought  a 
southern  climate  might  benefit  him,  and  prevailed  upon  him, 
after  many  entreaties,  to  remove  to  Florida.  A  year  passed 
on,  and  although  no  change  of  a  permanent  nature  appeared 
in  the  disease  of  the  invalid,  the  climate  seemed  to  retard  its 
ravages,  and  afford  some  relief  to  his  sufferings. 

But  poor  Ellen  was  harassed  by  other  anxieties  than  those 
which  grew  out  of  her  husband's  illness.  Their  pecuniary 
resources  were  nearly  exhausted,  and  she  knew  not  where  to 
apply  for  aid.  It  came,  however,  from  a  source  whence  she 
did  not  expect  it. 

She  was  sitting  by  her  husband's  couch,  one  day,  towards 
the  last  of  the  month  of  April.  The  weather  was  exceed 
ingly  warm,  and  both  her  children  lay  sleeping  on  a  pillow  at 
her  feet.  The  invalid,  also,  had  fallen  into  a  light  slumber, 


PROSE   SELECTIONS.  389 

and  Ellen,  having  no  one  to  mark  her  tears,  suffered  them  to 
flow  freely. 

She  was  employed  in  mending  an  old  dress  for  her  little 
boy,  for  she  had  no  means  of  buying  new  ones.  They  were 
already  much  in  debt,  and  there  was  no  prospect  of  any  favor 
able  change  in  their  circumstances.  Had  she  desired  to  return 
to  her  friends  at  the  North,  she  was  without  money  to  defray 
the  expenses  of  the  voyage,  and  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  ap 
plying  for  relief  to  those  who  had  already  assisted  her  more 
than  they  could  well  afford. 

"  They  must  not  know  how  I  suffer,"  thought  she ;  "  least 
of  all  must  Otis  know  it ;  his  heart  would  break,  if  he  could 
not  relieve  me." 

A  domestic  now  appeared  at  the  door,  holding  up  a  letter. 
Ellen  sprang  forward,  and  eagerly  grasped  it.  "  From  home  !  " 
she  murmured,  pressing  it  to  her  lips.  A  glance  at  the  post 
mark,  however,  told  her  it  was  not  from  home,  but  from  Otis 
Wendell.  It  was  long  since  she  had  heard  from  him,  and  a 
thrill  of  joy  shot  through  her  frame,  at  the  idea  of  receiving 
some  tidings  of  her  beloved  friend.  The  letter  enclosed  a  five 
hundred  dollar  bank-note,  and  only  these  few  lines : 

"  DEAR  ELLEN  :  —  God  has  prospered  me,  and  may  I  never 
cease  to  bless  him  for  enabling  me  to  make  this  small  acknowl 
edgment  of  my  great  debt  to  you.  I  am  practising  law  in 
New  York,  and  with  considerable  success,  which  I  know  will 
give  you  pleasure.  I  hope  your  health  and  cheerful  spirits 
are  spared  to  you  through  your  long  and  sorrowful  trials,  and 
that  your  watchings  and  prayers  may  not  all  be  in  vain.  I 
had  thought  of  going  to  Florida,  expressly  to  see  that  you 
have  the  attention  and  comforts  you  need ;  but  important  law 
business  unavoidably  detains  me.  Write  to  me,  Ellen,  a 
faithful  account  of  your  situation,  and  if  anything  is  wanting 
to  your  happiness  that  human  aid  can  supply,  remember  you 
have  a  devoted  brother  in  OTIS  WENDELL." 

If  Ellen  had  wept  tears  of  sorrow  before,  those  which  suc 
ceeded  the  perusal  of  this  letter  were  tears  of  the  purest  joy. 
Such  unexpected  relief  might  well  gladden  her  heart,  and 
33* 


390  PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

coming  from  one  so  dear  to  her,  one  she  had  loved  from  her 
very  infancy,  and  assisted  from  a  low  and  miserable  condition 
to  a  station  of  usefulness  and  honor,  it  had  a  threefold  power 
to  make  her  happy. 

Her  husband  noticed  the  change  in  her  countenance  when 
he  awoke,  and  when  she  communicated  to  him  the  cause  of 
her  joy,  she  saw  his  own  eye  brighten  with  glad  emotions, 
and  a  faint  flush  steal  over  his  cheek  that  had  been  colorless 
for  many  long  weeks.  She  had  told  him  but  little  of  her  tri 
als,  but  he  was  not  so  ignorant  of  them  as  she  supposed ;  and 
the  anxiety  and  distress  he  had  secretly  endured  for  her  had 
done  more  than  disease  to  waste  the  decaying  energies  of  his  life. 

From  this  hour  a  favorable  change  seemed  wrought  in  his 
system,  and  Ellen  began  to  hope  for  his  recovery  once  more. 
Through  the  summer  he  was  able  to  walk  out  a  short  dis 
tance  every  day,  and  sit  at  her  side  with  cheering  words  to 
lighten  her  constant  toil.  November  had  hardly  commenced, 
however,  when  he  was  again  brought  low  by  a  sudden  and 
alarming  renewal  of  his  old  complaints.  In  a  short  time  he 
was  more  reduced  than  he  had  ever  been  before,  but  lingered 
along  through  the  winter,  and  early  months  of  spring;  and 
then  a  new  cup  of  affliction  was  given  poor  Ellen  in  the  sick 
ness  of  her  children.  They  were  attacked  by  scarletina,  and 
only  two  days  elapsed  before  little  Ellen,  the  baby,  preceded 
her  father  by  a  few  hours  to  the  world  of  spirits. 

It  was  the  first  of  May,  that  a  gentleman  made  inquiries  at 
the  public  houses  of  St.  Mary,  Florida,  for  the  residence  of 
Mr.  Elliot,  an  invalid  from  New  England.  He  was  at  length 
informed  of  his  death,  and  of  the  sickness  of  his  wife,  who 
now  lay  in  the  most  dangerous  stages  of  the  yellow  fever, 
which  had  just  begun  to  infect  that  city.  The  gentleman 
hastened  immediately  to  her  dwelling.  He  opened  the  door, 
and  proceeded  from  room  to  room,  finding  each  one  deserted. 
His  heart  began  to  sink,  when  a  low  moan  attracted  him  to  a 
little  apartment  in  the  rear.  Here  he  found  Ellen,  alone, 
helpless,  and  suffering  all  the  horrors  of  that  frightful  pesti 
lence.  He  went  up  to  her  couch,  and  bent  over  her  pillow. 
She  opened  her  eyes,  and  gazed  at  him  vacantly,  for  a  while. 
The  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  and  fell  upon  her  fevered  brow. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS.  391 

"  0,  Ellen ! "  he  passionately  exclaimed,  pressing  her  burn 
ing  hand  in  his.  She  uttered  a  feeble  cry,  and  murmured 
the  name  of  Otis ;  then  closing  her  eyes,  the  tears  gushed 
rapidly  from  beneath  the  lids.  They  seemed  to  relieve  her 
brain,  for  she  gazed  up  at  him  more  brightly  than  before,  and 
earnestly  entreated  him  to  leave  her,  and  escape  from  the  dan 
gers  of  the  pestilence. 

"  Leave  you,  Ellen  ?  Never !  till  you  are  restored  to  health 
and  friends.  Never,  Ellen,  will  I  leave  you  to  suffer  alone, 
while  my  life  and  reason  remain  !  " 

Otis  was  true  to  his  word.  He  procured  every  comfort  and 
assistance  that  was  needed,  and  watched  over  her  with  the 
tenderness  of  a  mother.  He  looked  after  the  welfare  of  her 
little  boy,  who  had  been  early  removed  from  the  contagion, 
and  carried  daily  tidings  to  the  couch  of  the  anxious  invalid. 

We  need  not  prolong  the  details.  Ellen  recovered  at  last, 
though  very  slowly  and  imperfectly.  It  was  with  many  sad 
forebodings  that  Otis  assisted  her  to  embark  for  a  northern 
climate.  Her  frail  body  seemed  almost  ruined  by  the  ravages 
of  sorrow  and  disease.  Still,  he  hoped  much  from  old  influ 
ences,  and  the  careful  nursing  of  her  friends.  He  hoped 
much  from  the  natural  buoyancy  of  her  spirits,  and  the  orig 
inal  strength  of  her  constitution.  He  rejoiced  to  see  her  eyes 
light  up  with  joy  when  they  drew  near  the  shores  of  New 
England.  He  watched  her  with  the  intensest  interest,  when 
she  sat  sometimes  upon  deck,  with  her  little  boy  in  her  arms, 
to  see  the  deep  delight  she  experienced  in  the  intelligence  and 
sweetness  of  his  childish  talk.  The  boy  was  very  beautiful, 
and  loved  his  mother  with  a  depth  of  reverence  rarely  observed 
in  one  so  young.  This  trait  in  his  character  did  more  than 
all  else  to  wean  Ellen  from  thoughts  of  the  past  —  this,  and 
her  confidence  in  heaven. 

The  first  step  Otis  took,  on  his  arrival  at  Newburg,  was  to 
purchase  the  dwelling  Ellen  had  formerly  occupied,  and  fit  it 
up  comfortably  for  her  residence.  He  restored  as  much  of  the 
old  family  furniture  as  could  be  obtained,  and,  in  every  ar 
rangement,  delicately  consulted  her  preferences.  She  knew 
him  too  well  to  distress  his  noble  nature  by  manifesting  any 
reluctance  in  accepting  his  generous  aid ;  and  as  soon  as  he 


392  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

saw  her  pleasantly  reinstated  in  her  old  possessions,  he  re 
turned  to  his  business  at  New  York. 

Otis  had  conquered  much  of  his  early  morbid  sensitiveness, 
and  now  moved  among  men  as  one  conscious  of  abilities  to  do 
them  good.  He  had  steadily  refused  political  preferment,  but 
in  any  civil  capacity,  was  ready  at  all  times  to  exercise  his 
talents  for  the  public  benefit.  He  soon  rose,  as  all  truly  great 
and  good  men  must  rise,  into  honor  and  popularity.  A  circle 
of  warm  friends  and  admirers  gathered  around  him,  ready  to 
use  every  possible  influence  and  exertion  to  promote  him  to 
any  station  they  could  prevail  on  him  to  fill.  He  was  too 
well  satisfied  with  his  success  in  doing  good  as  a  private  indi 
vidual,  to  court  more  elevated  honors.  It  was  not  applause 
that  he  desired,  though  when  men  praised  his  eloquence  and 
learning,  he  was  happy  to  feel  that  his  soul  had  risen  superior 
to  its  early  weakness,  and  that  the  life  his  young  heart  fore 
boded  would  be  one  of  misery,  had  been  already  full  of  activity 
and  happiness. 

He  was  universally  regarded  as  the  friend  of  the  friendless, 
the  guardian  of  the  weak  and  tempted,  the  benefactor  of  the 
suffering  poor.  When,  at  length,  at  a  mature  period  of  his 
life,  he  rose  from  the  bar  to  the  bench,  and  sustained  the 
character  of  an  upright  and  impartial  judge,  there  was  no 
man  regarded  with  more  universal  respect  and  individual 
admiration  than  the  poor  little  deformed  boy,  who,  thirty 
years  before,  had  sat  at  Ellen's  side,  and  deplored,  with  tears, 
his  lone  and  miserable  condition. 

Among  the  beneficent  acts  of  his  life,  none  is  more  worthy 
of  record  than  his  kindness  to  Ellen's  son.  Not  content  with 
placing  the  mother  in  circumstances  almost  affluent,  he  took 
young  Otis  under  his  own  guardianship,  educated  him  at  col 
lege,  and  received  him  into  his  law  office  with  all  the  advan 
tages  he  would  give  to  an  only  son. 

Ellen,  who  had  no  happiness  apart  from  her  child,  also 
removed  to  New  York,  and  was  introduced  by  Judge  Wendell 
into  the  highest  circles  of  society  as  the  benefactress  of  his 
early  life,  and,  from  infancy  upward,  his  best  beloved  friend. 
She  had  now  passed  the  meridian  of  life,  but  preserved  the 
same  cheerful  sweetness  of  temper  and  kindness  of  heart  that 


PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

characterized  her  early  years.  Though  she  never  quite  recov 
ered  from  the  effects  of  her  sickness  and  affliction  in  Florida, 
she  manifested  none  of  the  languor  and  depression  of  an 
invalid.  Always  interesting  herself  in  some  scheme  of 
benevolence,  she  forgot  her  own  weakness  in  the  real  suffer 
ings  of  the  multitude  that  surrounded  her. 

Otis  Elliot  distinguished  himself  in  his  profession,  though 
he  never  attained  to  the  greatnes,  that  marked  the  riper  years 
of  Otis  Wendell.  He  married  a  lady  of  great  wealth  and 
accomplishments,  who  opened  her  splendid  establishment  to 
her  husband's  most  revered  friends,  his  mother  and  Judge 
Wendell,  and  bade  them  welcome  to  an  abiding  home.  They 
accepted  the  offer  with  sincere  pleasure.  They  gathered 
around  one  fireside  —  Ellen,  the  senior  of  the  group,  with  her 
snow-white  hair  parted  smoothly  from  her  calm  forehead,  and 
her  slender  frame  bowed  with  weakness  and  age  ;  Otis  Wen 
dell,  the  irreproachable  judge,  the  man  of  countless  charities, 
with  his  fine  countenance  marked  with  the  first  furrows  of 
time,  and  bearing  a  look  of  serene  dignity  that  was  doubly 
impressive  from  its  contrast  with  the  physical  diminutiveness 
and  deformity  he  had  borne  about  with  him  from  the  hour  of 
his  birth ;  Otis  Elliot,  the  handsome  and  idolizing  son  of  an 
equally  idolizing  mother,  with  his  beaming  eye  glancing  from 
his  young  bride  to  his  aged  mother,  and  thence  to  his  beloved 
guardian,  to  rest  with  equal  tenderness  upon  each ;  and,  lastly, 
the  young  bride  herself,  the  link  that  had  drawn  these  dear 
beings  into  one  happy  household  circle,  to  be  separated  no 
more  in  life,  with  her  beautiful  face  turned  ever  fondly  upon 
her  husband's  —  these  all  gathered  daily  around  one  board 
and  one  hearthstone,  and  presented  one  of  the  loveliest  exam 
ples  ever  seen,  of  the  faithful  and  deep-rooted  friendship,  which 
increases  with  every  added  year  of  life,  and  passes  out  of  this 
state  of  being  to  that  which  is  more  perfect,  to  receive  an 
eternal  confirmation  in  the  immediate  presence  of  Deity. 

1845. 


LYDIA   VERNON. 

IT  was  just  sunset,  when  the  mail  coach  drew  up  before  the 
lodge  at  Markley  gate,  and  gave  egress  to  a  little  form  wrapped 


394  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

up  in  a  blue  silk  shawl,  a  modest  chip-hat,  and  a  green  gauze 
veil.  A  large  trunk  followed,  which  the  driver  deposited  in 
the  empty  lodge.  No  one  appearing,  to  welcome  or  conduct 
the  young  stranger,  she  took  her  way  alone  up  the  long  wind 
ing  avefme,  uncertain  whither  it  would  conduct  her,  and  trem 
bling  with  dread  of  the  reception  she  might  meet  from  her 
rich  and  unknown  relatives.  Presently,  through  the  openings 
in  the  trees,  she  discovered  the  turreted  roof  of  a  stately  man 
sion,  from  whose  glazed  towers  the  setting  sun  was  reflected 
in  golden  radiance.  Her  heart  beat  faster  than  before.  She 
could  scarcely  totter  up  to  the  steps  of  the  door,  where  she 
paused,  hoping  some  one  had  seen  her  approach,  and  would 
appear  to  usher  her  in. 

Her  hopes  were  soon  answered.  In  the  parlor  above  were 
seated  two  young  ladies  in  the  alcove  of  a  window,  and  before 
them  stood  a  gentleman,  not  greatly  their  senior  in  years. 

"  Who  is  that  little  body  creeping  up  the  path  ?  "  said  one 
of  the  ladies,  pointing  to  the  timid  stranger,  and  addressing 
her  lordly  brother. 

"  Really  I  cannot  tell,  Constance,  unless  it  be  our  young 
seventh-cousin,  who  is  expected.  I  just  recollect  that  father 
gave  me  warning  of  her  arrival  to-night,  and  charged  me  ear 
nestly  to  show  her  all  needful  attentions  till  his  return.  But 
you,  fair  ladies,"  and  here  the  young  man  glanced  at  the  dark- 
eyed  beauty,  "  have  excluded  all  thoughts  except  of  your  own 
sweet  selves.  You  must  suffer  me  now,  however,  to  make 
atonement  for  my  neglect ;  for  see  ;  the  poor  child  looks  really 
distressed  and  embarrassed."  So,  hastening  down  stairs,  he 
opened  the  door  for  the  little  visitor. 

"  Miss  Lydia  Vernon,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  kindly  offering 
his  hand.  "  Pardon  me  that  I  was  not  at  the  gate  to  receive 
you.  You  must  think  us  quite  unkind  that  we  left  you  to 
find  your  way  alone,  informed  as  we  were  of  the  time  of  your 
anticipated  arrival.  But  really,  I  was  not  aware  that  the  hour 
was  so  late." 

"  Oh,  I  found  my  way  quite  well  alone ;  it  was  not  neces 
sary  you  should  trouble  yourself  to  watch  for  me.  Is  Mrs. 
Markley  at  home,  and  well  ?  " 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  395 

"  No,  my  father  and  mother  are  absent  on  a  journey ;  but 
my  sister  Constance  is  at  home,  and  will  be  happy  to  see  you. 
She  is  in  the  parlor;  please  take  my  arm,  and  I  will  conduct 
you  to  her." 

Never  had  two  sweeter  or  more  winning  voices  discoursed 
together  than  these.  Richard  Markley's  was  one  that  thrilled 
through  the  hearer  like  exquisite  music.  There  seemed  to 
be  magic  in  it,  so  powerfully,  yet  tenderly,  did  it  penetrate 
the  hearts  of  those  who  listened.  Lydia  Vernon's  had  the 
same  tones,  the  same  power,  only  softer  and  more  delicate  ; 
and  as  on  taking  Richard's  arm,  she  threw  back  the  veil  from 
her  face,  he  could  not  but  glance  somewhat  curiously  at  lips 
from  which  issued  such  enchanting  music. 

Lydia  had  not  much  regular,  permanent  beauty;  and 
Richard,  who  had  been  gazing  all  day  at  the  dazzling  eyes 
and  brilliant  complexion  of  Thesta  Brownell,  was  too  much 
blinded  to  perceive  the  soft  lustre  of  the  hazel  eyes  that  drooped 
beneath  the  curious  glance  of  his  own.  Leading  the  young 
stranger  into  the  parlor,  he  introduced  her  to  his  sister,  and  to 
her  friend,  Miss  Brownell.  After  a  few  pleasant,  but  not  over- 
cordial  greetings,  Constance  conducted  her  to  her  chamber, 
and  Richard  took  the  vacant  seat  at  Thesta's  side.  Again 
those  tones  commenced,  and  their  winning  cadences  sank  into 
Thesta's  heart  more  deeply  than  they  had  ever  reached  before. 
Her  eyes  drooped  beneath  his  admiring  glances ;  they  grew 
dim  with  tears  which  she  vainly  strove  to  conceal ;  her  heart 
beat  quickly,  and  her  hand  trembled  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind. 
Yet  it  was  not  the  words,  but  the  tones,  which  produced  this 
effect.  All  the  tenderness  that  man  can  feel  for  woman  was 
breathed  in  the  melody  of  his  voice.  Thesta's  pride  melted 
beneath  it.  The  strong  passion  of  her  haughty  nature  was 
fully  awakened,  and  she  loved  as  she  never  could  have  hum 
bled  herself  to  love  before. 

Richard  saw  his  power,  and  saw  it  with  as  much  triumph 
as  true  inward  joy.  Thesta  was  no  ordinary  woman.  To 
gain  the  affections  of  one  who  had  heretofore  shown  such  a 
proud  disdain  for  the  weaknesses  of  her  sex,  was  a  victory 
that  gratified  Richard's  vanity  as  much  as  it  ministered  to  his 
love.  He  resolved  to  enjoy  this  feeling  to  the  utmost;  and 


396  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

for  this  reason  he  guarded  his  words,  and  gave  the  power 
wholly  to  his  tones. 

Richard  had  some  faults  blended  with  many  noble  and  gen 
erous  qualities.  He  enjoyed,  too  selfishly,  the  incense  of 
woman's  love,  and  knew,  too  well,  the  arts  and  gentle  courte 
sies  by  which  it  is  so  easily  won.  His  delicious  tones  and 
devoted  manners  had  caused  suffering  to  more  hearts  than  his 
benevolent  hand  had  ever  freed  from  want  and  misery.  Per 
haps  he  was  not  fully  conscious  of  all  this  ;  and  yet  what  man 
was  ever  ignorant  of  the  effect  produced  by  his  graceful  cour 
tesies  upon  hearts  susceptible  to  kindness  ? 

He  was  proud  too,  and  exacted  from  others  the  worship  he 
would  not  return ;  yet  there  were  depths  of  kindness  and 
affection  within  him,  sufficient  to  redeem  every  weakness,  and 
atone  for  every  wrong. 

Thesta  Brownell  shared  more  of  his  faults  than  of  his  vir 
tues.  Though  superior  in  intellect,  beautiful  in  person,  and 
endowed  with  wealth  and  rank  equal  to  her  pride,  she  knew 
little  of  those  gentle  qualities  that  make  up  the  real  worth  of 
woman.  Her  hand  never  relieved  misery ;  her  smile  never 
encouraged  the  sorrowing.  Her  associations  were  only  with 
those  who  could  appreciate  her  talents,  admire,  flatter  and 
continually  minister  to  her  pride.  With  such  as  these,  she 
could  be  affable  and  winning  in  the  extreme ;  but  Richard 
Markley  was  the  only  person  who  had  ever  touched  her  heart, 
or  usurped  the  throne  so  long  and  entirely  occupied  by  SELF. 
She  had  now  been  a  visitor  at  Judge  Markley's  for  nearly  six 
weeks,  and  was  intending  to  pass  the  remainder  of  the  sum 
mer  there ;  at  the  termination  of  which  period,  not  only  she, 
but  all  the  members  of  the  Markley  family,  hoped  she  would 
become  the  betrothed  of  Richard. 

The  arrival  of  so  humble  a  personage  as  Lydia  Vernon,  a 
poor  orphan  relative  of  the  Judge's,  could,  of  course,  produce 
little  change  in  the  affairs  at  Markley  Place.  She  glided  in 
and  out,  smiled  and  spoke,  as  quietly  and  unobtrusively  as 
possible.  No  one  thought  of  talking  with  her,  except  Richard, 
who  was  charmed  with  the  sweetness  of  her  voice,  and  touched 
by  the  loneliness  of  her  situation.  But  he  was  too  much 
engrossed  in  the  progress  of  his  power  over  Thesta  to  make 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  397 

many  efforts  to  entertain  her.  So  she  sat  and  thought  of  her 
humbler  and  happier  home  forever  lost ;  and  wondered  whether 
she  should  ever  be  any  less  lonely  and  unnoticed  than  now. 
She  looked  forward  to  the  Judge's  return  with  much  anxiety, 
for  in  him  she  was  sure  of  a  kind  and  considerate  friend ;  but 
she  felt  not  at  all  sure  of  pleasing  Mrs.  Markley,  who,  like  her 
daughter  Constance,  thought  all  poor  relations  a  great  burden. 

One  evening,  a  few  weeks  after  Lydia's  arrival,  the  little 
party  at  Markley  Place  were  gathered  under  one  of  the  ma 
jestic  oaks  in  the  park,  and  Richard  and  Thesta  were  convers 
ing  in  an  animated  manner  upon  a  German  poem  they  had 
recently  been  reading.  Lydia,  who  had  accompanied  them 
by  Richard's  particular  request,  and  who  sat  at  his  side 
because  he  placed  her  there,  was  listening  with  interest  to 
their  discussion.  Richard  attempted  a  quotation  from  the 
poem  to  illustrate  some  opinion  he  had  expressed ;  but  his 
memory  failing  him,  he  called  on  Thesta  to  finish  it.  She 
had  forgotten,  or  had  not  treasured,  the  particular  language, 
and  could  not  assist  him.  He  turned  laughingly  to  Lydia, 
and  begged  her  to  come  to  his  aid.  She  raised  her  soft  eyes, 
which  were  brighter  than  usual,  and  though  her  cheek  crim 
soned,  and  her  voice  faltered,  repeated  the  forgotten  passage 
with  a  peculiar  grace  and  enthusiasm. 

Richard  was  surprised  arid  charmed,  for  he  had  always  sup 
posed  her  an  uneducated  girl,  and  had  never  thought  of  speak 
ing  to  her  upon  any  subject  connected  with  literature.  He 
thanked  her  most  warmly  and  admiringly,  and  turned  a  glance 
on  Thesta  to  see  if  she  did  not  share  his  surprise  and  delight. 

Never  were  beautiful  features  so  deformed  by  scorn  and 
anger  as  those  of  Thesta  Brownell.  'T  was  but  for  a  moment, 
and  they  resumed  again  their  unclouded  brilliancy  ;  but  thai 
mmnent  —  it  was  one  whose  memory  could  never  be  obliter 
ated.  Richard's  heart  felt  as  though  a  swift  flame  had  passed 
over  and  scathed  it ;  while  Lydia,  who  had  also  seen  the  look, 
sat  pale  and  half  breathless  from  wounded  feeling.  Thesta 
made  an  effort  to  continue  the  conversation,  but  Richard  would 
not  or  could  not  respond,  and  Lydia,  pleading  sudden  illness, 
begged  to  retire.  Richard  rose  to  accompany  her,  but  she 
34 


398  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

refused  his  attendance,  and  would  not  lean  upon  his  proffered 
arm.  He  kindly  placed  it  around  her,  however,  and  persisted 
in  helping  her  to  the  house,  where  he  called  a  servant  to  wait 
on  her,  and  reluctantly  returned  to  the  ladies  he  had  left. 

This  little  incident  opened  to  Richard  new  pages  in  two 
female  hearts.  One,  it  is  true,  gave  him  pain  to  read ;  yet  he 
was  glad  it  had  not  been  sealed  too  long ;  and  though  he  did 
not  cease  to  be  fascinated  by  Thesta's  beauty,  and  to  admire 
her  brilliant  mind,  he  found  his  feelings  much  less  tender  than 
he  would  have  once  thought  it  possible.  His  eyes  once 
opened,  he  did  not  suffer  himself  to  be  again  blinded,  but 
watched  every  little  circumstance  with  a  critical  eye,  and  a 
careful  judgment. 

One  evening  there  was  music  in  the  parlor.  Thesta  was 
the  performer,  and  Richard  turned  the  leaves.  Among  other 
pieces,  she  sung  a  tender  little  ballad,  containing  a  mournful 
family  history,  that,  chiming  in  with  Lydia's  personal  experi 
ence,  affected  her  to  tears.  Richard,  observing  this,  quitted 
his  post  by  Thesta's  side,  and  going  up  to  the  window  where 
Lydia  sat,  kindly  took  her  hand,  and  whispered  softly,  "  Would 
this  new  home  were  pleasanter  to  you,  Lydia,  and  you  would 
not  grieve  so  much  for  the  old  one." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  replied,  looking  up  to  him  with  a 
grateful  smile,  at  the  same  time  motioning  him  to  leave  her. 
He  turned  toward  the  piano,  but  Thesta  had  left  it,  and  seated 
herself  in  the  alcove.  He  begged  her  to  resume  the  music, 
but  she  coldly  declined,  and  when  he  persisted  in  his  entrea 
ties,  referred  him,  in  a  scornful  manner,  to  Miss  Vernon. 

"  Lydia,  do  you  play?"  he  inquired. 

But  Lydia  had  left  the  room,  and  did  not  return.  Richard 
sat  down  by  Thesta,  and  again  used  all  the  fascination  of  his 
voice  and  manner  to  remove  the  cloud  that  had  settled  upon 
her  brow.  For  once  his  power  was  unavailing.  Her  pride 
had  been  wounded  —  by  a  trifle,  it  is  true ;  nevertheless  it 
was  a  wound  that  rankled  deeply  for  the  time.  "  Oh  beauty ! " 
thought  Richard ;  "  would  to  Heaven  it  shone  in  her  spirit  as 
brightly  as  it  irradiates  her  person  ! " 

The  next  day  Judge  Markley  and  lady  returned  from  their 
journey.  Lydia  was  a  great  favorite  with  the  Judge,  who, 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  399 

having  had  frequent  business  with  her  father,  had  seen  much 
of  her  from  her  infancy.  He  now  took  her  under  his  special 
protection,  and  nearly  her  whole  time  was  passed  in  the  libra 
ry,  where  she  assisted  him  in  his  writing,  and  in  hunting 
over  his  books  for  the  numerous  subjects  he  was  daily  examin 
ing.  Nothing  could  make  her  happier  than  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  useful,  particularly  to  one  she  so  much  loved  and 
respected. 

"  You  are  my  right  hand,"  said  he  to  her  one  day,  "  and  I 
shall  keep  you  shut  up  in  the  library  with  me,  out  of  sight  of 
the  beaux,  for  I  should  be  undone  if  any  of  them  were  to  carry 
you  away." 

"  I  promise  never  to  leave  you  till  you  wish  it,  dear  uncle," 
replied  Lydia,  smiling. 

"  What,  not  if  some  young  lawyer  should  require  your 
assistance  ?  " 

"  A  circumstance  so  improbable,  uncle,  that  we  will  not 
even  imagine  it." 

"  Not  at  all  improbable,  Lydia,  not  at  all.  There  is  my  son 
Richard  —  a  splendid  lawyer.  When  he  opens  an  office  he 
will  be  overrun  with  business.  What  if  he  should  come  to 
beg  your  services  ? " 

"  I  should  not  give  them  to  him,  for  he  could  hire  a  dozen 
better  clerks  than  I  should  make,  besides  having  Miss  Brownell 
to  help  him." 

"  Pshaw !  Miss  Brownell  ?  She  help  him  ?  No,  she  would 
require  him  to  sit  at  her  feet  all  day  in  devout  homage,  think 
ing  of  no  other  object  in  the  universe  but  her  will  and  her 
pleasure.  Thesta  Brownell  ?  I  would  see  her  at  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope  before  I  would  see  her  the  wife  of  my  dear  Richard." 

"  She  is  a  very  intellectual  woman,  indeed,  uncle." 

"  Yes,  intellectual,  and  that  is  all  you  can  say  for  her.  So 
are  books  intellectual,  and  if  Richard  is  going  to  marry  for 
mind  only,  I  advise  him  to  wed  my  great  copy  of  Lord  Francis 
Bacon,  or  Locke's  '  Treatise  on  the  Understanding.' " 

"  You  wrong  Miss  Brownell,  uncle.  She  is  capable  of  deep 
feeling." 

"  I  acknowledge  that ;  but  it  is  deep  feeling  for  herself,  only. 
She  has  strong  passions,  but  no  true,  pure  womanly  affections; 


PKOSE    SELECTIONS. 

no  pity  for  the  afflicted ;  no  sympathy  for  the  poor ;  no  self- 
denial  ;  no  noble  principles  of  benevolence  and  philanthropy ; 
nothing,  in  short,  dear  Lydia,  worthy  the  love  of  a  heart  like 
Richard's.  He,  it  is  true,  has  his  faults ;  but  they  are  not  so 
deep-rooted  that  a  gentle  and  skilful  hand  could  not  remove 
them.  If  he  marries  Thesta  Brownell,  he  will  become  a  dis 
appointed,  bitter,  reckless  fellow ;  if  he  finds  a  wife  such  as  I 
wish,  he  is  capable  of  becoming  an  honor  to  his  race." 

"  You  accord  great  influence  to  us  poor  women,  uncle." 

"I  do,  Lydia,  I  do  I  You  have  it  in  your  power  to  make 
us  saints  or  devils.  What  the  mother  fails  to  do,  the  wife 
should  finish.  We  are  like  wax  in  your  hands,  to  be  moulded 
as  you  will." 

"  I  hardly  think  you  will  find  many  men  to  agree  with  you," 
said  Lydia,  laughing,  "  for  if  I  were  to  judge,  I  should  say 
there  were  more  of  the  sex  composed  of  iron  and  adamant 
than  of  any  softer  material.  But  as  for  you,  dear  uncle,  I 
think  your  heart  is  rather  soft,  or  I  never  should  have  been 
able  to  make  so  good  an  impression." 

Their  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
some  gentlemen  on  business,  and  Lydia  retired  into  a  little 
room  adjoining  the  library,  which  was  also  used  for  a  study. 
Here  she  found  Richard,  who  sat  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand, 
gazing  at  the  wall,  rather  than  at  the  book  before  him.  "  Ah 
Lydia,"  said  he  as  she  entered,  "  I  have  seen  but  very  little 
of  you  since  father's  return.  Does  he  keep  you  always  at 
work  for  him  ? " 

"  He  asks  no  more  of  me  than  I  wish,  no,  nor  so  much  as  I 
wish,  to  do  for  one  to  whom  I  owe  so  much." 

"  Would  that  all  had  your  amiable  and  unselfish  disposition, 
Lydia.  Shall  I  too  make  a  demand  upon  your  good  nature, 
and  ask  you  to  read  me  this  hard  poem  of  Schlegel's  ?  I  am 
puzzled  to  understand  his  meaning." 

"  It  is  a  visionary,  mystical  thing,  but  I  will  show  you  a 
little  prose  translation,  which  will,  I  think,  give  you  a  tolerable 
idea  of  his  idea.  'T  is  in  my  chamber ;  I  will  bring  it." 

When  Lydia  returned  to  the  study,  she  found  Thesta  there, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  retreating  as  she  opened  the  door; 
but  Richard  called  her  in. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  401 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Thesta,  haughtily.  "  I  did  not  know, 
Mr.  Markley,  that  you  gave  or  received  private  lessons,  or  I 
should  not  have  intruded  at  this  time." 

"  Thesta  ! "  said  Richard,  reproachfully,  as  he  rose  to  detain 
her ;  "  Thesta  ! "  'T  was  only  a  word,  but  sufficient  to  cover 
her  face  with  crimson,  as  she  tore  herself  from  his  hands  and 
left  the  room.  Poor  Lydia  burst  into  tears,  and  hid  behind 
the  curtain  of  the  window.  Richard  was  at  first  too  much 
vexed  and  agitated  to  speak ;  but  after  a  moment  or  two  he 
walked  up  to  the  window,  and  drawing  her  gently  to  him, 
prayed  her  most  earnestly  not  to  be  pained  by  Thesta's  un 
happy  temper,  but  to  despise  her  taunts  as  heartily  as  he  did. 
Unwilling  to  distress  Richard  by  suffering  him  to  see  the  pain 
she  felt,  Lydia  soon  regained  her  usual  calm  gentleness,  and 
without  alluding  to  what  had  passed,  gave  him  the  translation, 
and  engaged  him  in  conversation  upon  Schlegel's  poem. 

Never  had  Richard  been  so  sincerely  charmed  with  Lydia 
as  now.  She  united  so  much  sensibility  with  so  much  gentle 
ness,  and  such  fine  intellectual  perceptions,  he  could  not  but 
feel  that  she  realized  his  ideal  of  a  perfect  woman.  There 
was  nothing  showy  about  her.  Her  whole  character  was  as 
modest  and  unpretending  as  the  little  soft  face  through  which 
it  so  transparently  shone.  But  he  liked  her  better  that  she 
was  not  showy.  Her  soft  hazel  eyes,  and  fair,  almost  pale 
cheeks,  touched  his  heart  more  deeply  than  even  Thesta's 
glorious  beauty.  "  The  eagle  is  a  splendid  bird,  but  after  all 
a  bird  of  prey !  What  so  beautiful  and  winning  as  a  little 
snow-white  dove  that  one  can  fold  so  softly  to  one's  bosom  ? " 
thought  he,  as  he  detained  Lydia  at  his  side  a  whole  hour, 
addressing  questions  to  her  mind  and  heart,  and  receiving  in 
every  answer  a  new  surprise,  and  a  new  delight. 

It  was  very  painful  to  Lydia  to  be  an  object  of  dislike  or 
annoyance  to  any  person  ;  and  her  situation  at  Markley  Place 
was  anything  but  a  happy  one.  The  Judge  and  Richard 
were  truly  her  friends,  and  treated  her  at  all  times  with  the 
kindest  and  most  attentive  courtesy ;  but  Mrs.  Markley  and 
her  daughter  were  only  coldly  civil,  while  Thesta,  their  favor 
ite,  gave  her  daily  proofs  of  the  haughtiest  contempt  and  dis- 
34* 


402  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

like.  The  cause  of  these  feelings  poor  Lydia  in  vain  conjec 
tured.  She  never  dreamed  they  sprang  from  jealousy  —  from 
a  fear  that  her  gentle  temper,  winning  manners  and  sweet 
voice,  combined  with  a  highly  cultivated  mind,  would  capti 
vate  the  heart  of  the  proud  and  courtly  Richard.  Lydia  was 
an  humble  being.  She  never  dreamed  of  aspiring  to  any 
man's  love  —  much  less  to  that  of  one  so  superior  as  she 
regarded  her  cousin.  Even  his  attentions,  so  flattering,  so 
affectionate,  failed  to  awaken  one  silent  hope  of  anything 
beyond  their  present  kindness.  She  had  penetrated  sufficient 
ly  into  Richard's  character  to  knoAV  that  his  devotion  to  woman 
was  no  partial  and  exclusive  sentiment,  but  a  courtesy  univer 
sally  bestowed ;  and  though  he  had  his  favorites,  to  whom  his 
voice  was  softer  and  his  glance  tenderer  than  to  others,  she 
believed  his  true  love  was  wholly  given  to  Thesta  Brownell ; 
for  though  he  saw  her  faults,  and  condemned  her  injustice 
toward  Lydia,  it  did  not  necessarily  follow  that  she  had  any 
the  less  empire  over  his  heart. 

Richard  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  account  for  Thesta's  ca 
pricious  conduct  toward  himself.  He  knew  she  loved  him. 
Even  her  caprices  proved  it ;  but  why  she  so  highly  resented 
his  attentions  to  Lydia  he  could  not  conjecture.  He  thought 
jealousy  inconsistent  with  so  much  pride  of  character ;  and 
besides,  his  attentions  had  been  nothing  more  than  Lydia's 
situation  in  the  family  and  her 'truly  lady-like  deportment 
demanded.  He  had  supposed  Thesta  too  well  versed  in  the 
courtesies  of  refined  life  to  regard  these  attentions  as  anything 
worthy  of  remark,  or  as  exceeding  the  bounds  of  ordinary  gal 
lantry.  But  that  they  did  offend  and  vex  her  had  been  ren 
dered  evident  by  too  many  proofs  to  be  longer  a  matter  of  doubt ; 
and  at  the  same  time  that  Richard  was  flattered  by  his  power, 
he  grew  disenchanted  of  his  admiration. 

Thesta,  who  observed  with  keen  eyes  the  slightest  change 
in  his  manners  toward  herself,  felt  that  she  was  losing  his 
love ;  but  instead  of  attributing  it  to  her  own  folly,  supposed 
it  the  effect  of  Lydia's  attractions.  Tortured  by  jealousy,  and 
animated  by  the  bitterest  enmity  toward  the  innocent  Lydia, 
Thesta  continued  in  her  gloomiest  mood  for  many  days  after 
the  meeting  in  the  little  study.  Richard  was  too  much  vexed 


FROSE    SELECTIONS.  403 

with  her  to  flatter  away  her  frowns,  and  too  much  pleased 
with  Lydia  not  to  persevere  in  his  gentlest  attentions,  when 
ever  her  presence  in  the  parlor  gave  him  an  opportunity.  But 
these  occasions  were  so  rare  that  he  grew  dissatisfied  with 
confining  himself  wholly  to  parlor  courtesies,  and  began  to 
make  more  than  daily  visits  to  his  father's  library.  True, 
Lydia  was  always  too  busy  to  talk  with  him,  but  he  could 
stand  by  the  book-shelves,  taking  down  and  rustling  through 
numerous  volumes,  all  the  while  that  his  eyes  were  intently 
perusing  her  sweet  and  studious  face ;  arid  it  is  singular  that 
the  more  he  perused  it,  the  more  interested  and  absorbed  he 
became  in  the  occupation. 

One  morning  he  had  stood  so  long  rustling  over  the  books, 
that  the  Judge  grew  somewhat  fidgety  at  the  sound,  and 
advised  him,  if  he  were  searching  for  any  particular  subject,  to 
call  upon  Lydia  for  assistance,  for  Lydia  knew  everything 
that  the  library  contained,  and  just  the  place  to  find  it. 

"  Do,  Lydia,  then,  come  and  help  me,"  said  the  young  man, 
turning  toward  her  with  a  slight  confusion  of  manner  —  the 
first  she  had"  ever  observed  in  him.  She  arose  and  went 
towards  him,  while  the  Judge,  suddenly  recollecting  an 
engagement  "  down  town,"  told  her  he  should  have  no  occa 
sion  for  her  services  before  another  day,  and  left  the  room 
directly.  This  act  was  a  very  simple  one,  to  be  sure,  but  it 
had  the  effect  of  discomposing  the  young  people  materially ; 
so  much  so  that,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Richard  was 
awkward. 

"  What  do  you  wish  to  find  ?"  said  Lydia. 

"  That  is  the  very  question  upon  which  I  need  your  assist 
ance,  for  really  I  do  not  know  ! " 

"  Not  know  your  own  wishes !  How  can  I  possibly  dis 
cover  them  to  you  ? " 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  know  that  any  better,  dear  Lydia.  But 
let  us  look  over  these  books  together,  and  perhaps  we  may  find 
a  solution  to  the  mystery." 

So  they  turned  over  a  multitude  of  volumes,  read  aloud 
numerous  passages,  made  a  variety  of  comments,  and  at  last 
sat  down  together  in  the  deep,  cushioned  window-seat,  and 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  that  beautiful  story  of  Margaret,  in 


404  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

Wordsworth's  "  Excursion."  "  Stop,  Lydia,"  said  Richard, 
checking  her  hand  as  she  was  about  to  turn  another  leaf,  "  I 
wish  to  read  you  one  passage  here. 

'  She  was  a  woman  of  a  steady  mind, 
Tender  and  deep  in  her  excess  of  love, 
Not  speaking  much,  pleased  rather  with  the  joy 
Of  her  own  thoughts  :  by  some  especial  care 
Her  temper  had  been  framed,  as  if  to  make 
A  being,  who  by  adding  love  to  peace 
Might  live  on  earth  a  life  of  happiness.' 

There,  Lydia,  that  is  just  what  I  wish  to  find  —  such  a 
woman ! " 

"  I  trust  you  have  already  found  one  in  whom  most,  if  not 
all,  of  these  qualities  unite,"  replied  Lydia,  modestly. 

"If  you  refer  to  Thesta,  you  are  in  the  wrong.  I  confess  I 
have  been  much  fascinated  by  her  beauty  and  intellect,  so 
much  so  that  I  fancied  myself  in  love ;  but  the  illusion  is  dis 
pelled  ;  and  though  I  acknowledge  her  superior  gifts,  I  have 
no  wish  to  live  in  the  blaze  of  them.  There  never  has  been 
any  pledge  between  us,  and  it  is  certain,  dear  Lydia,  that 
there  never  will  be." 

It  was  also  certain  that  Lydia's  heart  beat  gladly  at  this 
assurance,  for  though  she  felt  for  Thesta  the  kindest  good 
will,  she  could  not  sincerely  desire  to  see  her  the  wife  of 
Richard. 

"  And  do  you  regret,  Lydia,  that  the  matter  has  so  termi 
nated?" 

"  Frankly,  Richard,  I  do  not,  for  I  believe,  in  my  heart, 
that,  brilliant  and  beautiful  as  Miss  Brownell  certainly  is,  she 
has  not  the  temper  to  make  you  happy." 

"  No,  I  have  always  desired  a  gentler  and  sweeter,  and 
more  trusting  wife ;  one  who  could  forgive  my  faults,  and 
bear  patiently  with  my  caprices.  I  am  selfish,  of  course,  in 
wishing  such  a  being  to  unite  her  destiny  with  mine ;  but  I 
do  verily  believe,  could  I  win  one  so  good  and  loving,  she 
would  mould  me  into  almost  anything  she  desired." 

"  I  dare  say  you  will  find  such  a  woman  one  of  these  days," 
replied  Lydia,  lowering  her  soft  eyes  beneath  Richard's  ear 
nest,  penetrating  glance. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  405 

"Will  you  pray  for  my  success  in  the  pursuit?"  he  in 
quired. 

"  Certainly ;  I  could  not  neglect  to  pray  for  one  who  has 
always  treated  me  with  such  distinguishing  kindness,"  said 
Lydia,  in  soft,  trembling  tones,  that  sank  into  Richard's  soul. 
And  as  she  said  this,  there  was  such  a  swelling  of  tears  in  her 
heart,  she  dared  not  remain,  but  rising  from  her  seat,  cast 
upon  Richard  a  look  which  said  so  plainly  that  she  must  go, 
that  he  relinquished  the  hand  he  had  taken  to  detain  her,  and 
murmured  a  heart-felt  "  God  bless  you ! "  that  sounded  in  her 
ears  for  many  days  and  weeks. 

Richard  remained  for  a  long  while  sitting  as  she  had  left 
him,  revolving  in  his  mind  a  variety  of  sweet  and  of  perplex 
ing  thoughts.  These  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  his 
mother. 

"  You  have  grown  studious  of  late,"  she  said,  taking  a  seat 
near  him.  "  What  cloud  has  passed  between  you  and  Thesta  ? 
Are  you  aware  that  she  leaves  us  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  mother,  I  have  been  too  little  in  her  confidence  of 
late  to  know  any  of  her  intentions.  I  regret,  that  she  leaves 
so  soon." 

"You  speak  very  dispassionately,  Richard.  It  is  not  so 
indifferent  a  matter  with  me  that  Thesta  leaves  us,  and  under 
circumstances  which  forbid  the  hope  that  she  will  ever  return. 
Why  must  you  two  part,  who  seem  made  for  each  other  ? 
She  loves  you,  Richard  —  most  intensely  loves  you ;  and  but 
a  few  weeks  since  I  felt  sure  your  heart  was  equally  hers. 
Why  this  caprice  ?  " 

"  Mother,  it  is  no  caprice.  Thesta  has  given  me  sufficient 
proof  that  we  can  never  make  each  other  happy ;  and  believ 
ing  this,  I  have  ceased  to  love  her.  She  is  proud ;  so  am  I. 
She  is  exacting ;  so  am  I.  She  is  vexed  and  angry  if  1  am 
even  civil  to  another  woman  —  and,  mother,  you  know  I  can 
never  be  ruled  with  such  a  rod.  I  used  forbearance  at  first, 
for  I  really  loved  her;  but  when  she  revenged  herself  on  me 
by  injuring  the  feelings  of  another  who  had  never  wronged 
her  —  that  I  could  not  forgive.  The  spell  is  broken.  I  can 
never  marry  Thesta  Brownell,  and  you  must  cease  to  wish  it." 

"  I  know  it  is  vain  to  urge  anything  against  which  you  are 


406  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

resolved,  but  I  cannot  cease  to  wish  a  union  in  every  respect 
so  much  to  your  advantage.  Thesta  has  beauty  and  accom 
plishments,  arid,  above  all,  the  mind  you  so  much  prize ;  she 
belongs  to  a  rich  and  highly  connected  family,  has  always 
moved  in  the  highest  circles  of  society,  and,  in  short,  is  the 
only  woman  I  know,  whose  circumstances  in  life  at  all  corre 
spond  with  your  own.  Have  you  thought  of  all  these  things, 
my  son?" 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  happiness  in  wedded  life,  dear  mother, 
that  the  parties  should  have  been  reared  in  the  same  circles, 
or  that  their  '  circumstances  in  life'  should  exactly  correspond? 
'T  is  a  false  theory,  to  which  I  cannot  subscribe." 

"  Ah,  Richard,  Lydia  Vernon  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  this 
mischief.  I  trace  these  new  radical  views  of  marriage  dis 
tinctly  back  to  their  source.  I  see  plainly  that  in  place  of  a 
noble,  elegant  and  refined  woman,  you  are  resolved  on  marry- 
ing  — » 

"What?  mother." 

"  Lydia  Vernon ! " 

"  Thank  you  for  uttering  that  simple  name.  I  am  not 
resolved  on  marrying  Lydia,  mother,  until  I  ascertain  her  own 
wishes  upon  that  point  —  but,  indeed,  I  know  of  none  nobler, 
or  more  elegant  and  refined,  to  whom  I  could  possibly  aspire." 

"  What  is  she,  Richard,  except  for  your  father's  charity,  but 
a  homeless  pauper  ?  " 

"  She  is  the  orphan  daughter  of  a  distinguished  though 
poor  man ;  and  immensely  rich  and  independent  in  her  own 
inward  resources.  Lydia  is  by  no  means  a  dependent  on 
father's  charity,  though  for  the  love  he  bears  her,  and  the 
ability  she  has  of  serving  him  in  his  studies,  she  has  consented 
to  accept  a  home  under  our  roof.  Oh,  make  it  a  happy  one 
to  her,  dear  mother,  as  you  value  your  own  peace,  and  the 
love  of  Richard !  Show  her  more  kindness  and  respect,  and, 
believe  me,  you  will  soon  discover  how  much  she  deserves  it. 
No  one  who  truly  knows  Lydia  can  fail  to  respect  and  love  her." 

"  I  say  no  more,  Richard,  except  that  I  am  grievously  dis 
appointed.  From  childhood  up,  you  have  followed  your  own 
will,  and  it  is  hopeless  for  me  to  combat  it ;  therefore,  marry 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  407 

Lydia,  and  disgrace  yourself  and  family  as  much  as  you 
desire.  I  can  only  grieve  for  your  perversity." 

"  Mother,  dear  mother !  I  will  not  reason  with  you,  now. 
If  I  seem  wilful,  believe  it  is  a  will  dictated  by  conscience, 
and  the  voice  of  that  monitor  you  cannot  ask  me  to  disobey." 

Mrs.  Markley  left  the  room  without  replying,  and,  more  per 
plexed  than  ever,  Richard  resumed  his  thoughts. 

Lydia,  on  retiring  to  her  room,  gave  way  to  the  sweetest 
and  tenderest  emotions.  She  was  far  above  any  feeling  of 
envy  or  revenge,  and  it  was  wholly  from  another  principle 
that  she  rejoiced  in  Richard's  escape  from  a  connection  with 
Thesta.  Superadded  to  this  joy  was  the  first  throbbing  con 
sciousness  of  love  —  a  pure,  unselfish  feeling,  that  asked 
nothing,  hoped  nothing,  but  was  completely  happy  in  its  own 
young  and  beautiful  existence.  Richard's  tenderness  of  man 
ner,  the  gentleness,  and  reverence,  and  devotion  of  his  looks 
and  words,  had  enchained,  by  degrees,  her  whole  being ;  but 
she  was  too  humble  and  unpresuming  .to  think  it  possible  she 
had  inspired  him  with  similar  feelings.  She  believed  his 
words  and  looks  proceeded  from  pure  kindness  alone,  and 
resolved  that  he  should  never  know  the  deeper  emotions  he 
had  excited  in  her  own  bosom. 

So  well  did  she  succeed  in  this  resolution,  that  several  weeks 
elapsed  without  Richard's  making  any  progress  in  her  confi 
dence,  or  even  satisfying  his  own  heart  whether  he  had  won 
an  abiding  place  in  hers.  We  have  said  before,  that  he  loved 
too  well  the  incense  of  woman's  affection  ;  and,  in  most  cases, 
it  was  sufficiently  obvious  to  him  when  he  had  obtained  it ; 
but  so  truly  and  humbly  did  he  now  for  the  first  time  love, 
that  all  his  wonted  confidence  forsook  him,  and  he  dared  not 
breathe  in  words  the  hopes  that  centred  in  his  soul. 

Near  the  close  of  a  fine  day  in  September,  the  Judge  called 
Lydia  to  the  door,  to  look  at  a  black  pony  he  had  been  pur 
chasing. 

"  O,  my  own  dear  Jennett ! "  cried  Lydia,  flying  out  into 
the  yard,  and  throwing  her  arms  around  the  pony's  neck  with 
a  burst  of  joyful  tears.  "  Dear  Jennett !  how  do  you  do  ?  Have 
you  come  back  again  to  your  old  mistress  ?  How  kind  in  you, 
dear  uncle,  to  think  of  me  in  this  ! " 


408  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

"  She  is  yours,  Lydia ;  and  you  must  never  part  with  her 
again  ! " 

"  Mine  !  Did  you  say  mine  ?  Oh,  uncle,  how  can  I  ever 
thank  you  enough  ?  You  must  not  think  me  foolish  for  lov 
ing  this  little  creature  so  much.  She  is  the  last  remaining 
relic  of  home.  She  has  shared  with  me  the  caresses  of  my 
father's  hand.  She  seems  to  me  almost  like  a  sister !" 

Richard,  who  had  followed  her  to  the  door,  and  had  wit 
nessed  this  exhibition  of  joy  and  tenderness,  inquired  how  she 
had  happened  to  part  with  anything  so  dear  to  her. 

"  Oh,  from  necessity  ;  nothing  else  can  take  away  from  us 
what  we  love,"  replied  Lydia. 

"  Rather  a  fine  sense  of  justice  than  necessity,  in  this  case, 
except  that  with  you  the  former  phrase  is  synonymous  with 
the  latter,"  added  the  Judge.  "  Lydia  parted  with  Jennett  to 
pay  off  a  last  remaining  debt  of  her  father's  ;  a  sacrifice  that 
few  would  have  made.  And  now,  Lydia,  I  wish  you  to  tie 
on  your  hat,  and  take  a  trot  through  the  park,  to  see  if  Jennett 
has  forgotten  any  of  her  old  paces.  Richard,  of  course,  will 
be  your  esquire." 

"  Ten  thousand  thanks,  father,  for  the  suggestion.  Do  not 
object  to  it,  Lydia." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  she,  tripping  gayly  into  the  house. 
She  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  habited  in  her  green  riding-coat, 
with  a  pretty  little  velvet  cap  and  black  drooping  plume  upon 
her  head.  She  had  never  looked  so  graceful  and  beautiful. 

Richard  assisted  her  to  the  saddle,  adjusted  her  pretty  little 
foot  in  the  stirrup,  and  then  mounted  his  own  horse,  whose  high 
head  and  broad  flanks  suited  the  stately  bearing  of  its  rider. 

"Why,  Richard,"  said  the  Judge,  "you  look  like  an  ogre 
bearing  off  a  nymph  ! " 

"  But  I  can  escape  him,  if  I  am  small,"  cried  Lydia,  starting 
off  in  a  canter,  that  left  Richard  in  the  rear  for  a  number  of 
rods.  He  joined  her  near  the  gate  of  the  park,  and  invited 
her  to  extend  the  ride  through  a  wooded  lane  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  public  road.  She  consented,  and  they  pursued  a 
leisurely  ride  of  several  miles. 

"  Shall  we  not  return  ?"  said  Lydia,  as  they  arrived  at  the 
verge  of  a  long  circuitous  hill. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  409 

"  Let  us  descend  the  hill  slowly.  There  is  a  beautiful 
brook  at  the  foot." 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  during  the  descent.  When  they 
reached  the  brook,  Richard  dismounted  and  tied  his  horse  by 
the  roadside.  Then  taking-  the  reins  from  Lydia's  hand,  he 
guided  the  pony  down  to  the  water's  edge.  A  clematis-vine, 
in  full  feather,  hung  in  festoons  over  the  bars  of  the  bridge. 
From  this  he  plucked  some  long  wreaths,  with  which  he  began 
decorating  Jennett's  head  and  neck. 

"  Lydia,"  said  he,  leaning  his  arm  across  Jennett's  mane, 
and  looking  up  into  the  rider's  glowing  face,  his  own  as  glow 
ing,  "  Lydia,  I  had  a  sweet  dream  as  we  descended  this  long 
hill  together." 

"  Had  you,  Richard  ?     So  had  I." 

"  Indeed  !     Tell  me  yours,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I  dreamed  I  was  at  home,  in  the  dear  old  woodlane  at 
Eastshire  ;  that  Jennett  was,  as  she  is,  my  own  dear  gentle 
pony ;  that  you  were  my  brother  Henry ;  and  that  I  was  teas 
ing  him  to  remain  ever  with  me,  and  never  to  try  the  treach 
erous  sea  again.  But  it  was  all  a  dream  ! ". 

"  Ah,  Lydia,  you  regret  the  dream,  while  I  am  so  happy  in 
the  reality  !  But  listen  to  my  vision,  which  is  not  of  the  past, 
nor  present ;  perhaps  not  even  of  the  future,  though  that  re 
mains  for  you  to  determine.  I  thought,  Lydia,  that  this  was 
the  hill  of  life,  which  you  and  I  were  descending  together ; 
that  this  was  our  own  quiet  and  shaded  path ;  shaded,  but  not 
gloomy  ;  with  sunshine  stealing  through  every  bough,  and 
birds  singing  on  every  tree.  I  thought  you  looked  ever  up 
into  my  face,  as  though  I  were  your  guide  and  protector,  and 
gave  all  your  thoughts  and  feelings  into  my  charge,  and  re 
garded  me  as  the  only  one  on  earth  —  the  sole  Adam  in  your 
Paradise  !  Pardon  the  dream,  Lydia,  so  full  of  self-conceit; 
but  I  thought  your  face  was  so  full  of  joy,  and  that  it  turned 
on  me  as  sweetly  and  trustingly  at  the  last  as  at  the  first ;  and 
that  when  you  spoke,  the  words  and  tones  were  all  music ; 
and  that  the  sweetest  words  by  which  you  addressed  me  — 
the  sweetest,  dearest,  most  thrilling  words  to  which  I  ever 
listened,  were,  '  My  dear  husband ! '  Lydia,  it  was  a  dream ; 
35 


410  1'ROSE    SELECTIONS. 

a  bright,  dazzling  dream  ;  can  it  be  no  more  than  this  ?  Oh, 
say  to  me,  as  you  dreamed  you  said  to  your  brother — 'Re 
main  ever  with  me !'" 

"  Richard,"  said  Lydia,  struggling  with  the  emotions  that  for 
some  moments  had  kept  her  silent ;  "  is  this  a  new  dream,  for 
the  first  time  troubling  your  brain  ?  " 

"  I  have  dreamed  it  for  six  weeks,  Lydia,  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  other  thoughts.  It  is  not  one  of  my  usual  '  bewilder 
ments,'  as  you  may  possibly  suppose,  Lydia.  I  love  for  the 
first  time.  I  love  without  much  hope,  Lydia ;  aware  as  I 
am  of  my  numerous  and  culpable  faults ;  but,  even  if  I  ac 
knowledge  a  slight  hope,  founded  on  our  congenial  tastes  and 
feelings,  you  will  not  deem  my  vanity  unpardonable.  I  am 
prepared  to  hear  you  say  you  do  not  love  me  ;  but  shut  not 
out  all  hope  that  I  may  some  day  win  a  place  in  your  affec 
tions.  Life  would  be  so  dark  and  worthless  to  me  now,  Lydia, 
if  I  had  not  you  to  share  its  enjoyments  with  me  ! " 

"  I  have  never  hoped  for  this,"  replied  Lydia,  smiling  through 
her  tears.  "  It  is  a  new  and  startling  thought,  that  I  am  loved 
by  one  whom  I  have  placed  so  high  above  me.  Richard,  I 
know  not  how  to  speak  an  untruth  ;  I  have  loved  you,  without 
ever  dreaming  it  possible  you  cared  at  all  for  me.  If  it  be 
indeed  true  that  I  can  make  you  happy,  here  is  my  hand, 
dear  Richard.  I  give  it  without  one  feeling  of  distrust,  hoping 
it  may  serve  you  as  a  faithful  minister  of  my  heart.  I  should 
not,  deeply  as  I  love  you,  so  readily  consent  to  a  union  that  I 
know  your  mother  thinks  will  degrade  you,  were  I  not  sure 
that  it  is  one  of  the  fondest  hopes  of  your  father  to  see  me 
your  wife.  Your  wishes  and  his  shall  rule  me  —  or,  rather, 
is  it  not,  after  all,  my  own  wishes,  which  prompt  me  to  say, 
/  am  ever  yours  ?  " 

1847.  

ESTHER. 

"  WILL  Mr.  Liddell  come  in  the  first  stage,  father  ?  "  inquired 
George  Seywood,  as  they  sat  at  the  breakfast  table. 

"  Oh  !  I  hope  so,"  cried  Esther,  clasping  her  hands  ner 
vously  above  her  plate. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  411 

"  I  hope  not,"  muttered  Willie,  in  a  demure  voice  at  her 
side  ;  "  it  will  be  nothing  but  lessons,  lessons,  lessons,  then  ! " 

"Will  Mr.  Liddell  pinch  ears?"  slily  asked  little  Clara  of 
her  mother,  with  a  peculiar,  roguish  smile,  that  signified  some 
past  experience  of  the  chastisement. 

"  I  think  he  will  not  arrive  before  night,"  replied  Mr.  Sey- 
wood  to  George's  question  ;  "  the  first  stage  leaves  the  city  an 
hour  before  day." 

"  That  is  not  very  early,  if  one  is  going  on  business,"  said 
Esther,  pouting  a  little.  She  could  not  bear  disappointment. 

"  O  Esther !  Let 's  put  some  flowers  on  his  table.  May  n't 
we,  mother  ?  "  asked  the  uneasy  little  Clara  again. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply.  "  If  you  have  finished  your  breakfast 
you  may  each  of  you  gather  a  bouquet  for  Mr.  Liddell's  table." 

"  Oh,  good  ! "  cried  the  children,  springing  from  their  seats, 
and  rushing  to  the  garden.  "  I  '11  have  the  biggest ;"  "  I  '11 
have  the  prettiest ;"  "  I  '11  have  roses ;"  "  I  will  get  some  vio 
lets,"  were  the  confused  shouts  that  broke  in  through  the  win 
dow,  as  they  dispersed  in  their  several  pursuits. 

"  I  feel  anxious  about  this  Mr.  Liddell,"  said  Mrs.  Sey  wood 
to  her  husband  when  they  were  left  alone.  "  The  children 
have  been  so  long  under  Master  Morrell's  care,  and  this  gen 
tleman  is  so  young  ! " 

"  Young,  it  is  true,  but  his  manners  are  dignified,  and  he 
seems  to  have  uncommon  stability  of  character.  Master 
Morrell  is  faithful  as  a  teacher,  but  only  think  of  his  manners ! 
Esther,  especially,  spends  half  her  time  in  mimicking  his  peculi 
arities  —  shuffling  her  feet,  pulling  the  tip  of  her  nose,  &c.,  till 
the  poor  old  man  has  become  nothing  but  their  laughing-stock." 

"  Esther  is  a  little  wild,  I  fear  ;  and  it  is  particularly  on  her 
account  that  I  feel  anxious  about  so  young  a  tutor." 

"  What ! "  said  Mr.  Seywood,  laughing.  "  You  don't  think 
Esther  old  enough  to  be  getting  up  any  romances,  do  you  ? 
Let 's  see ;  is  she  eleven  or  twelve  ?  " 

"  Fourteen,  last  Wednesday.  Not  old  enough  for  romances, 
perhaps,  but  too  old  to  be  playing  tricks  on  a  young  man." 

"  Poor  child,  how  homely  she  grows  !  Her  form  is  a  com 
plete  bean-pole.  What  a  pity  it  is  her  hair  cannot  change  two 
or  three  shades  darker." 


412  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

"  Her  hair  !  why  it  is  perfectly  beautiful,  if  you  could  only 
keep  it  from  flying  all  over  the  world.  It  is  as  soft  and  glossy 
as  untwisted  silk,  and  I  am  sure  the  color,  that  beautiful  dark 
brown  red,  would  have  quite  charmed  one  of  the  old  painters. 
I  will  say  nothing  of  her  form  and  face.  She  is  at  a  green 
age,  when  nothing  about  her  is  properly  developed  ;  but  her 
brown  eyes  beam  with  inexpressible  softness  and  fire  when 
her  heart  and  soul  are  touched,  and  her  blush  is  exquisite  — 
but  I  see  you  are  laughing  at  me." 

"  A  mother's  eyes  always  look  through  the  glass  of  the 
imagination,  which  will  account  for  the  fine  coloring  you  give 
to  poor  Esther's  charms.  I  do  think,  however,  the  child  is 
remarkable  in  her  character  and  intellect.  Yet  she  is  very 
odd  and  ill-tempered.  Are  you  not  aware  of  it  ?  " 

"  Ill-tempered  ?  Oh  no,  only  irritable  from  too  much  sensi 
bility.  She  has  the  temperament  of  genius,  for  which  we 
must,  of  course,  make  allowances." 

"  The  only  trouble  is,  my  dear,  you  allow  everything ;  or  at 
least  we  may  say  a  few  more  reproofs  would  not  be  without 
good  fruit." 

The  conversation  of  the  parents  was  here  interrupted  by  the 
return  of  the  two  younger  children  ;  Clara,  with  a  handful  of 
African  marigolds,  nasturtions  and  escholtzias,  which  in  her 
eyes  were  the  pride  of  the  garden ;  and  Willie,  who,  though 
not  a  lazy  boy,  never  accomplished  anything,  with  one  or  two 
white  lilies  and  a  late  summer  rose. 

The  mother  smiled,  and  arranged  the  bouquets,  attaching  to 
each  a  label  with  these  words,  "  A  gift  from  Willie,"  "  A  gift 
from  Clara."  They  were  set  in  separate  glasses  of  water,  and 
carefully  conveyed  to  the  new  tutor's  apartment.  George 
came  next  from  the  greenhouse,  with  his  tea-roses,  his  gera 
niums  and  camellias,  but  Esther  delayed  so  long  that  her 
mother  was  just  going  in  search  of  her,  when  she  returned. 
She  had  been  more  careful  in  her  selection,  and  yet  her  bouquet 
was  the  least  showy  of  any.  A  myrtle  sprig  with  a  few  white 
buds,  a  spray  of  lavender,  two  splendid  pansies,  a  small  moss 
roseJbud,  and  an  orange  flower,  with  a  few  forget-me-nots, 
hidden  by  a  sprig  of  sweet-scented  verbena,  completed  the 
assortment.  The  mother  commended  the  delicacy  of  her 


PROSE    SELECTIONS,  413 

taets,  and  Esther  begged  that  she  might  arrange  the  label, 
which  she  did  by  neatly  printing  her  name  upon  a  white  rib 
bon,  with  which  she  tied  the  flowers  together. 

Esther  herself  arranged  the  flower-glasses,  one  at  each  cor 
ner  of  the  student's  table.  This  table  stood  in  the  window- 
niche  of  a  small  room  which  projected  from  the  tutor's  sleeping 
chamber,  and  opened  at  one  end  upon  a  pleasant  balcony. 
An  empty  book-case  stood  ready  to  receive  his  library,  and 
everything  had  been  carefully  arranged  for  his  comfort  and 
happiness.  The  children  did  not  expect  him  in  the  first  stage  , 
oh  no !  of  course  he  would  not  like  to  start  so  early ;  but, 
nevertheless,  they  ran  up  the  road  twenty  times  in  the  course 
of  a  half  hour  to  see  if  the  stage  were  not  approaching. 

•  At  last  a  shout  from  George  proclaimed  its  arrival ;  and 
father,  mother,  and  children  gathered  around  the  door  to  wel 
come  the  stranger.  Esther  alone  was  absent.  She  had  stolen 
away  at  the  first  alarm,  and  with  a  beating  heart  stood  gazing 
through  the  blind  of  her  chamber  window,  too  sensitive  to 
allow  her  agitation  and  delight  to  be  observed. 

"  It  may  not  be  he,  after  all,"  prudently  remarked  George, 
as  the  vehicle  approached  the  door. 

"  Yes  it  is,"  said  Clara,  sagaciously ;  "  I  see  him  on  the  top, 
with  a  red  shirt  on." 

This  exclamation  excited  a  general  laugh,  which  did  not 
subside  till  the  driver  had  brought  his  horses  up  to  the  very 
door-steps. 

Mr.  Seyvvood  opened  the  coach  door,  and  a  tall  figure  sprang 
out,  encased  in  a  long  linen  sack,  and  covered  with  an  inch  or 
two  of  dust.  "  Welcome,  Mr.  Liddell,"  said  Mr.  Seywood, 
cordially  grasping  the  tutor's  hand,  and  introducing  him  to  his 
wife  and  children. 

"  We  hardly  looked  for  you  so  early,"  said  Mrs.  Seywood. 

"  I  took  advantage  of  the  cool  morning,"  replied  the  tutor. 
"  Among  my  many  sage  habits,  you  will  find  me  an  early  riser." 

"  A  habit  which  I  hope  you  will  teach  us  all  to  practise," 
said  Mrs.  Seyvvood,  looking  particularly  at  George. 

Meanwhile  Esther  stood  at  the  window  above.     A  scowl 
gathered  on  her  brow.    "  I  can  never  be  his  scholar,"  she  mut- 
35* 


414  PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

tered  to  herself.  "  Why  need  he  look  so  much  like  Apollo  ? 
(Esther  had  read  mythology.)  If  he  were  only  crooked,  or 
lame,  or  bashful,  how  I  could  love  him !  But  he  looks  up 
with  such  clear  bright  eyes  !  He  is  so  handsome  !  Blow  can 
I  ever  speak  to  him  ? " 

Then  she  thought  of  her  bouquet  upon  his  table,  and  was 
frightened  at  the  thought.  "  To  give  him  flowers,  and  yet 
never  be  able  to  speak  to  him ;  to  have  welcomed  him  by  so 
affectionate  a  messenger,  and  yet  never  after  to  address  him  a 
friendly  word  or  look !  She  would  run  and  take  the  flowers 
away.  He  should  have  no  cause  to  expect  any  confidence 
from  her.  He  should  receive  his  first  impression  of  her  from 
her  silence  and  awkwardness.  If  he  only  thought  her  a  fool 
at  first,  she  should  have  nothing  further  to  fear." 

Such  were  her  meditations  as  she  watched  the  young  tutor 
while  he  stood  conversing  with  her  father  at  the  door.  She 
ran  into  his  room  to  remove  the  flowers.  She  had  just  seized 
the  glass  that  contained  them,  when  she  heard  footsteps  ascend 
ing  the  stairs.  "  Good  Heavens  !  it  was  the  tutor  coming  to 
his  room ! "  How  could  she  escape  without  meeting  him, 
face  to  face,  at  his  chamber  door.  She  dropped  the  flowers, 
and  ran  with  desperation  toward  the  hall ;  but  as  she  touched 
the  latch  she  heard  her  father's  voice  immediately  without, 
saying  to  Mr.  Liddell,  "  We  hope  you  will  find  your  accom 
modations  here  agreeable.  If  any  improvement  is  needed,  let 
us  know  it.  You  will  find  a  little  room  adjoining  this  cham 
ber,  which  is  at  your  service  for  study.  Please  make  yourself 
entirely  at  home  here,  and  when  you  are  refreshed  from  your 
journey,  meet  us  at  the  dinner-table." 

Esther  rushed  back  into  the  little  study  and  shut  fast  the 
door.  She  sprang  toward  the  opening  that  led  out  upon  the 
balcony,  but  to  her  extreme  vexation,  it  was  locked,  and  the 
key  taken  away.  She  had  no  resource  but  to  remain  where 
she  was,  and  keep  the  door  fast  between  herself  and  Mr.  Lid- 
dell.  She  stood  braced  firmly  against  it,  with  her  hand  pressed 
upon  the  latch.  The  tutor  came  presently  and  tried  to  open 
the  door.  •  Pale,  trembling,  with  the  perspiration  starting  from 
every  pore,  Esther  firmly  resisted  his  efforts.  He  did  not 
renew  them,  supposing  the  door  to  have  been  accidentally  left 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  415 

locked.  Esther  was  congratulating  herself  that  at  the  ringing 
of  the  dinner-bell  she  should  escape  undetected ;  but  this  hope 
was  the  next  moment  frustrated  by  the  entrance  of  a  servant 
through  the  balcony  door,  bringing  a  ewer  of  fresh  water  for 
Mr.  Liddell's  chamber. 

"  How  now,  Miss  Esther,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?"  he  ex 
claimed  in  astonishment ;  but  without  waiting  to  reply,  Miss 
Esther  had  availed  herself  of  the  open  door,  and  hurried  in 
mortification  to  her  chamber.  Here,  overcome  by  fright, 
shame,  and  vexation,  she  threw  herself  upon  her  bed  in  a 
paroxysm  of  tears.  The  dinner-bell  presently  rung,  but  Es 
ther  could  not  compose  herself  to  appear  before  the  family. 
A  servant  girl  was  sent  up  to  tell  her  that  dinner  waited. 
She  returned  word  to  her  mother  that  she  was  sick  with  a 
headache,  and  wished  to  be  excused. 

A  new  source  of  vexation  now  occurred  to  her  in  the  recol 
lection  of  having,  after  all,  left  her  bouquet  lying,  fallen  from 
the  glass,  upon  the  floor.  She  dared  not  again  venture  in 
pursuit  of  it.  So,  despite  all  the  annoyance  she  had  suffered, 
she  must  at  last  meet  Mr.  Liddell  under  all  the  disadvantages 
of  a  committed  friendship. 

Mrs.  Seywood,  who,  without  knowing  all  the  perplexing 
things  that  had  occurred  to  disturb  her  daughter,  suspected 
that  her  indisposition  was  caused  by  nervous  agitation  from 
the  dread  of  encountering  her  new  tutor,  came  up  and  adminis 
tered  a  composing  draught,  which  soon  settled  the  poor  girl 
into  a  quiet  sleep.  This  lasted  till  about  five  o'clock,  when 
Mrs.  Seywood,  again  entering,  found  her  awake  and  at  the 
glass  arranging  her  hair. 

"  If  you  feel  well  enough,"  said  the  mother,  "  I  will  go  with 
you  to  the  schoolroom  now.  Mr.  Liddell  is  there,  prescribing 
the  lessons  for  to-morrow.  He  has  inquired  very  kindly  for 
Esther,  and  wears  your  flowers  on  his  bosom." 

Esther  turned  pale,  but  dared  not  refuse  to  accompany  her 
mother.  Her  trembling  limbs  were  hardly  able  to  support 
her  down  the  stairway.  But  when  she  heard  her  brother's 
voices  in  familiar  and  frank  conversation  with  the  dreaded 
tutor,  her  courage  was  a  little  reassured.  Mr.  Liddell  met 
her  kindly  at  the  door,  took  her  hand,  and  led  her  to  a  seat, 


416  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

where  he  stood  for  some  moments,  smoothing  her  hair,  prais 
ing  her  flower  gift,  which  he  still  wore,  and  expressing  many 
earnest  hopes  of  their  long  continued  friendship  for  each  other. 

Mrs.  Seywood  hastened  to  reply  in  Esther's  stead,  for  she, 
unhappily,  had  entirely  lost  her  self-command,  and  was  unable 
to  lift  her  eyelids  or  to  utter  a  single  word. 

"  Oh,  I  am  such  a  fool !  How  he  will  despise  me  ! "  thought 
Esther. 

"  Poor  child !     How  she  suffers  ! "  thought  the  mother. 

"  I  like  this  timidity.  Her  sensitiveness  charms  me ! " 
thought  the  tutor,  as  each  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments 
after  the  introduction. 

This  day  was  but  the  beginning  of  trials  for  Esther.  The 
daily  recitation  hours,  and  her  frequent  meetings  with  Mr. 
Liddell,  so  far  from  overcoming  her  fear  of  him,  only  increased 
her  reserve.  She  forgot  her  lessons,  though  most  perfectly 
committed,  blundered  at  the  simplest  questions,  and  almost 
daily  retired  from  the  schoolroom  ready  to  burst  into  tears  the 
moment  she  was  alone.  No  one  could  be  kinder,  gentler,  or 
more  condescending  than  the  tutor.  He  strove  unweariedly 
to  dissipate  her  embarrassment,  and  win  her  confidence.  But 
the  more  kindness  and  interest  he  manifested,  the  more  awe 
and  timidity  he  inspired.  He  was  puzzled.  Was  Esther 
really  stupid  and  ill-humored,  or  did  it  all  arise  from  diffi 
dence  ?  He  was  almost  ready  to  believe  in  the  first,  but  some 
thing  in  her  eye,  in  her  blush,  in  her  very  constraint,  kept 
his  vigilance  on  the  alert  to  detect  a  latent  soul. 

Esther,  on  her  part,  was  full  of  silent  grief.  More  and  more 
conscious  every  day  of  her  awkwardness  and  apparent  stu 
pidity,  she  labored  more  and  more  every  day  to  atone  in  pri 
vate  for  her  deficiencies.  Though  always  a  great  reader  of 
poetry  and  fiction,  she  had  never  before  made  such  vigorous 
application  to  study.  Her  Italian  grammar  was  entirely  at 
her  command  when  alone,  yet  she  could  not  correctly  decline 
a  single  word  or  quote  a  single  rule  in  the  presence  of  her 
teacher.  She  read  through  whole  poems  of  Petrarch  and 
tales  of  Boccacio,  understood  their  beauties  even,  yet  could 
not  translate  a  line  aloud  in  the  schoolroom.  When  required 
to  write  a  theme,  she  borrowed  from  Hannah  More ;  a  forgery 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  417 

which  the  tutor  could  not  fail  to  detect,  and  for  which  he 
gave  her  a  slight  reproof  which  almost  broke  her  heart.  After 
this  she  could  never  be  induced  to  bring  forward  a  single  line 
of  writing  upon  any  subject.  Yet  in  secret  she  wrote  sheets 
of  romance,  of  rhyme,  of  review,  that  would  have  done  honor 
to  much  older  intellects. 

"  He  is  so  beautiful,  so  good !  He  knows  so  much,  and 
talks  so  divinely !  If  he  could  only  know  that  I  am  not  really 
a  dunce  —  if  he  could  but  read  my  thoughts  for  a  moment ! 
He  told  me  to-day  the  story  of  Petrarch,  to  interest  me  in  the 
study  of  Italian.  Do  I  not  already  know,  not  only  of  Petrarch's 
love  and  sorrow,  but  cannot  I  also  repeat  his  sonnets — yes, 
and  whole  tales  of  Boccacio's  besides  ?  But  he,  '  uno  spirto 
celeste,  un  vivo  sole '  —  how  can  I  utter  in  his  presence  words 
that  in  solitude  almost  overwhelm  me  ?  And  then  I  am  so 
ugly,  and  he  so  beautiful !  When  he  fixes  his  clear  bright 
eye  upon  me,  and  speaks  to  me  with  that  sweetest  smile,  I 
feel  so  ashamed  of  my  sharp  nose,  my  yellow  cheeks,  and  red, 
flying  hair ! " 

So,  in  secret,  grieved  and  lamented  poor  Esther.  But  in 
proportion  as  she  suffered,  her  temper  grew  more  patient  and 
serene.  The  example  of  her  tutor  had  great  influence  upon 
her  unfolding  character.  His  goodness  and  gentleness  ruled 
and  subdued  her.  Her  petulance  became  restrained,  and  her 
kindness  more  assiduous.  Only  in  his  presence  she  seemed 
sulky  and  out  of  humor. 

Two  years  passed  on  in  this  manner,  and  while  each  of  the 
other  pupils  had  made  rapid  progress  in  study,  Esther  alone 
seemed  to  have  derived  little  advantage  from  her  lessons.  So 
reserved  was  she,  that  even  her  parents  knew  nothing  of  her 
secret  attainments.  They  were  often  surprised  at  the  intelli 
gence  she  displayed  in  her  moments  of  unguarded  conversa 
tion  with  them,  while  in  her  studies  she  was  apparently  so 
unsuccessful. 

"  Esther  knows  more  than  we  think,"  said  Mr.  Seywood  to 
his  wife  one  day,  as  their  daughter  left  the  room. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  understand  her,"  replied  the  mother. 
"  She  is  the  most  reserved  being  I  ever  knew  ;  and  the  most 
of  all  so  to  those  she  best  loves.  She  seems  frightened  at  the 


418  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

thought  that  one  should  notice  any  signs  of  intellect  in  her. 
1  fear  the  poor  girl  suffers  immeasurably  from  this  timidity." 

"Is  there  no  way  to  overcome  it?"  asked  Mr.  Seywood, 
anxiously. 

"  I  fear  not.  Every  attempt  to  win  her  confidence  seems 
to  distress  her.  But  she  is  an  excellent  girl.  Her  temper 
and  manners  have  much  improved.  No  one  can  be  more 
gentle  and  kind-hearted  than  she." 

"  She  is  much  more  interesting  in  her  person,  too.  I  begin 
to  think,  with  you,  that  her  hair  is  quite  an  ornament.  If  her 
complexion  were  only  fresher  !  " 

Of  late  there  had  been  a  good  deal  of  village  gossip  and 
family  comment  about  Mr.  LiddelPs  attentions  to  Mary  Gree- 
ley,  the  minister's  daughter.  She  was  a  beautiful  and  ac 
complished  girl,  captivating  in  her  manners,  and  extremely 
amiable  in  disposition.  The  tutor  was  evidently  much  inter 
ested  in  her  society.  He  accompanied  her  in  many  of  her 
rides  and  walks,  and  spent  several  evenings  of  a  week  at  her 
father's  house.  Mary,  on  her  part,  did  not  avoid  these  atten 
tions,  and  it  was  currently  reported  that  their  mutual  friend 
ship  had  resulted  in  a  matrimonial  engagement. 

Esther  was  not  deaf  to  these  reports ;  nor  to  the  railleries 
daily  addressed  to  Mr.  Liddell,  at  the  table.  But  she  heard 
them  all  in  secret.  She  never  inquired  respecting  the  affair, 
though  her  heart  was  not  indifferent  to  its  result.  She  often 
watched,  through  her  window-blind,  the  rides  and  walks  of 
the  young  friends  as  they  passed,  and  some  emotions  shook 
her  frame,  and  paled  her  cheek ;  but  what  they  were,  only 
her  own  spirit  and  the  Spirit  above  her  knew. 

The  term  of  Mr.  Liddell's  tutorship  at  length  drew  near  its 
close.  He  was  to  depart  in  the  autumn  for  Germany,  where 
he  designed  entering  one  of  its  famed  universities.  It  was 
already  August.  George  was  to  enter  college,  and  Willie  to 
continue  his  studies  under  Master  Morrell.  Esther's  atten 
tion  was  to  be  devoted  to  music  and  drawing,  in  the  hope  that 
in  these  accomplishments  she  might  excel  her  attainments  in 
scholarship. 

One  evening  Mr.  Liddell  was  sitting  in  one  of  the  summer- 
houses  in  the  garden,  when  Esther,  Willie,  and  Clara  passed 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  419 

by  without  observing  him,  and  stopped  under  a  small  grove  of 
trees,  furnished  with  seats. 

"  Well,  Will,"  said  Clara,  "  you  will  return  again  to  the 
sage  tutorship  of  Master  Morrell.  Tell  us,  Esther,  how  it  is 
the  old  man  reads  Virgil." 

Esther  imitated  him,  pulling  the  tip  of  her  nose,  and  shuf 
fling  her  feet  in  the  dirt.  "  I  never  thought  before,"  said 
Clara,  "  what  made  the  end  of  your  nose  so  sharp.  You  did 
it  by  mimicking  Master  Morrell  so  much.  Now  give  us  a 
scene  from  Tutor  Liddell." 

Esther's  eye  and  cheek  brightened,  and  she  drew  herself 
up  with  dignity.  "  The  Satyr  may  be  imitated,  but  not 
Hyperion ! "  she  exclaimed,  rebukingly.  Clara  and  Willie 
laughed,  and  thenceforth  designated  the  tutors  by  these 
names.  Mr.  Liddell,  on  his  part,  was  as  much  surprised  as 
amused  by  this  remark.  "  Am  I  really  so  great  in  the  eyes 
of  this  young  girl  ?  Then  I  have  never  understood  her.  I 
have  supposed  her  cold  or  feeble-hearted ;  that  her  nature 
was  not  susceptible  of  enthusiasm.  But  this  does  not  sound 
like  it.  This  '  Hyperion '  is  a  strong  word  from  any  lips, 
applied  to  a  mortal  man  !  " 

When  he  afterward  met  her,  it  was  with  renewed  kindness 
and  courtesy,  and  an  interest  so  marked  that  Esther  felt  it 
keenly.  But  it  could  not  break  the  crust  that  had  been  so 
long  hardening.  She  could  reply  only  with  blushes  and  mon 
osyllables.  These  signs,  however,  were  better  understood  by 
Mr.  Liddell  than  before.  "  I  have  wronged  her.  She  feels 
too  keenly.  It  is  this  that  makes  her  seem  dull  and  cold. 
The  deepest  waters  are  stillest  and  least  transparent." 

The  morning  of  Mr.  Liddell's  departure  having  finally 
arrived,  he  was  leaving  his  room  to  take  his  farewells  of  the 
family,  when  Esther,  pale  and  agitated,  met  him  in  the  hall. 
She  could  not  speak,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  which  he 
kindly  and  affectionately  pressed  to  his  lips.  "  You  must  not 
forget  me,  Esther,"  he  said  ;  "  for  when  I  return  my  first  visit 
will  be  here." 

Esther  replied  by  a  short,  sudden  glance,  that  expressed 
more  than  a  vocabulary  of  words.  Her  lips  moved  tremu 
lously,  but  no  sound  was  audible.  She  placed  a  package  of 


420  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

papers  in  the  tutor's  hands,  with  this  inscription  :  "  Esther's 
soul.  Read  it  when  alone,  and  far  out  upon  the  sea." 

As  this  inscription  met  his  eye,  he  again  grasped  her  hand 
as  she  was  about  to  fly  from  him,  and  exclaimed,  warmly, 
"  Thank  you,  dear  Esther.  This  is  what  I  have  long  wished 
to  read,  but  you  would  not  suffer  me." 

Tears  fell  from  Esther's  eyes  upon  the  hand  that  detained 
her.  She  pressed  it  fervently  for  a  moment,  then  tore  herself 
from  him,  and  rushed  into  her  chamber.  The  tutor  stood 
for  some  moments  much  affected  by  this  parting.  He  had  a 
small  book  of  songs  in  his  hand,  which  he  had  intended  giv 
ing  her  at  his  leave-taking,  but  in  the  surprise  of  the  occasion 
he  had  forgotten  it.  He  now  left  it  at  her  door,  and  descended 
to  the  parlor,  where  the  other  members  of  the  family  waited 
to  give  him  their  adieus  and  good  wishes.  He  could  only 
silently  press  their  hands,  and  receive  their  blessings.  The 
parents  felt  as  though  parting  with  a  beloved  son  ;  the  chil 
dren  as  though  losing  a  kind  elder  brother.  The  tutor's 
regrets  were  not  less  sincere. 

We  do  not  intend  following  either  of  the  personages  of  our 
little  story  very  closely  through  the  three  years  that  followed. 
We  wish,  however,  to  look  into  the  contents  of  that  enclosure 
which  Esther  had  called  her  soul.  The  tutor  obeyed  her 
instructions,  and  did  not  break  the  seal  till  he  was  many 
miles  from  shore,  alone  with  the  sky,  the  sea,  and  his  own 
meditations.  From  among  the  papers  that  were  enclosed,  he 
first  read  the  following  letter  : 

"  MY  BELOVED  TUTOR  :  —  I  know  not  whether  I  am  to 
excite  your  contempt  or  your  sympathy  by  what  I  write  ;  yet 
I  hope  for  the  latter,  when  I  recollect  that  in  the  course  of  a 
two  years'  observation  of  your  character,  I  have  never  known 
you  to  express  contempt  for  anything  beneath  the  heavens. 
To  this  tenderness  of  nature  I  appeal  in  my  mortifying  con 
fessions. 

"  How  strange  a  being  I  am !  Stranger  to  myself  than  to 
others,  because  better  understanding  the  disparity  between  my 
secret  and  my  open  character;  between  my  esoteric  and  my 
exoteric  being.  (Your  philosophic  terms  have  not  been  lost 
on  me,  you  see.) 


PKOSE    SELECTIONS. 

"  In  your  eyes,  above  all  others,  1  must  appear  a  dunce. 
No  other  name  can  express  the  dulness  and  awkwardness  I 
have  always  manifested,  which  I  should  continue  to  manifest, 
were  I  to  be  in  your  presence,  a  thousand  years,  unless  some 
miracle  were  to  smite  the  rock  beneath  which  the  rapid  wa 
ters  are  perpetually  gushing.  I  am  not  what  I  seem  !  Oh, 
no  !  something  better  and  nobler,  I  trust,  though  weak  enough 
at  best.  And  I  have  suffered,  I  desire  not  to  say  how  much, 
from  the  feeling  that  to  you,  above  all  others,  I  could  not  make 
myself  understood.  This  suffering  has  daily  grown  upon  me  ; 
and  now  that  you  are  about  to  depart,  and  I  have  no  hope  of 
ever  seeing  you  again,  (or  if  I  should,  what  would  it  avail, 
since  my  lips  refuse  ever  to  become  the  organ  of  my  soul  ?)  I 
feel  that  I  should  die  of  heart-break,  were  it  not  for  this  res 
olution  I  have  formed  of  opening  my  soul,  in  part  only,  to 
your  gaze.  And  this  I  can  do,  only  in  the  positive  belief  that 
I  never  again  shall  meet  you,  till  we  meet  where  all  spirits  are 
unveiled,  and  it  needs  no  speech  to  reveal  the  secret  thought. 

"  When  I  wish  to  describe  myself  to  you,  I  feel  powerless. 
How  can  I  make  my  singularities  understood  —  this  desire 
to  be  known,  and  yet  this  painful  shrinking  from  the  slightest 
revealment  of  my  true  nature ;  this  sorrow  at  being  misap 
prehended,  and  yet  this  unconquerable  reluctance  to  explain 
and  justify  myself?  You,  who  are  so  sincere,  so  frank,  can 
not,  I  am  sure,  divine  this  conflict  between  the  impulses  and 
the  will ;  and  yet  not  so  much  will,  as  a  necessity  laid  upon 
me;  some  fatal  spell,  evilly  imposed  by  nature. 

"  Yet  to  pass  through  life  unknown,  for  me,  who  have  such 
a  restless  craving  for  sympathy,  is  a  destiny  to  which  even 
the  inflexible  perverseness  of  my  will  shall  not  doom  me.  To 
one,  at  least,  —  to  him  who  has  been  my  best  earthly  bene 
factor,  because  my  best  and  highest  spiritual  guide,  —  to  you, 
my  dear  tutor,  I  will  in  part  unfold  myself.  In  the  papers 
that  accompany  this  letter,  you  will  find  partial  revelations  of 
my  soul ;  fragmentary  passages  from  my  book  of  life.  They 
will  surprise  you,  no  doubt ;  not  so  much  by  any  elegance  or 
vigor  of  composition  they  display,  as  by  the  modes  of  thought 
and  feeling  to  which  you  will  find  my  being  subject.  You 
36 


422  j       PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

will  find  that  I  am  not  cold ;  that  rather  my  heart  is  too  much 
heated  and  shaken  by  central  flames  ;  that  this  very  reserve 
that  clings  about  me  is  but  a  kind  of  lava  that  has  stiffened 
and  condensed  into  an  artificial  incrustation.  You  will  find 
that  my  studies,  useless  as  in  your  eyes  they  appear  to  have 
been  to  me,  are  carefully  treasured  in  my  memory,  and  ready 
at  every  mental  call.  And  this  will,  perhaps,  more  than  any 
thing  else,  surprise  you.  You  will  wonder  at  the  folly,  per 
haps  you  will  call  it  perversity,  which  has  made  me  conceal 
everything  I  have  acquired ;  which  has  often  incurred  your 
remonstrance  and  reproof,  rather  than  betray  my  secret.  This 
had  not  been  so,  were  my  intellect  of  the  common  fashion  ; 
but  the  consciousness  of  a  singular  velocity  and  skilfulness  of 
perception  and  memory,  the  penetrating  and  thrilling  certainty 
of  my  own  genius,  (for  can  I  call  it  otherwise  ?)  has  awed  and 
alarmed  the  sensitiveness  of  my  nature.  Oh,  it  has  been  so 
sweet  to  me  to  know,  and  yet  so  terrible  to  betray  my  power ! 
To  encounter  the  wondering  glance  —  to  excite  astonishment, 
admiration,  and  praise  —  this  has  been  my  trembling  horror, 
day  and  night.  Were  it  only  possible  to  be  superior,  and 
have  one's  superiority  discerned  without  surprise,  and  appre 
ciated  without  comment ;  were  it  only  possible  to  have  all  the 
world  born  and  grow  up  with  a  silent  recognition  of  one's 
greatness,  and  no  admiring  aunt  or  partial  friend  forever  mak 
ing  allusions  to  one's  talent ;  this  were,  indeed,  a  happy  sense 
of  fame  —  this  I  could  have  prayed  for  —  this  would  have 
made  me  blest ;  but  my  timidity,  my  sensitiveness,  my  very 
soul  itself,  has  fled  into  darkness  at  the  approach  of  every 
curious  investigation.  I  have  even  taken  pride  in  your  re 
proaches,  from  a  sense  of  their  injustice.  I  have  consoled 
myself  with  the  feeling  that  I  am,  and  that  has  atoned  for  all 
the  bitterness  of  your  suggestions  as  to  what  I  ought  to  be. 

"  You  will  think  my  present  boasting  quite  inconsistent  with 
my  pretended  sensitiveness  and  reserve.  But,  my  dear  friend, 
it  is  only  the  simple  thought  of  my  heart  simply  uttered.  It 
is  the  confession  of  a  veiled  soul  to  the  soul  under  whose 
glance  it  would  henceforth  walk  unscreened. 

"  There  is  reason  why  from  others  I  should  hide  my  pe 
culiar  gifts.  They  would  not  understand  them.  But  from 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  423 

you  I  had  every  cause  to  look  for  encouragement  and  sympa 
thy.  Why,  then,  have  I  so  feared  you  ?  Because,  my  friend, 
you  have  seemed  to  me  so  high,  so  Hyperion-like,  and  I,  in 
the  contrast,  so  insignificant.  My  personal  defects  have  had 
their  share  in  this  humility.  My  ugliness  and  awkwardness 
have  been  like  a  nightmare  upon  my  spirits.  Had  I  been 
beautiful,  then  you  would  have  looked  for  intellect,  and  I 
should  not  have  feared  surprising  you.  But  whenever  I 
would  have  uttered  myself,  the  thought  of  exciting  your  as 
tonishment  kept  me  mute. 

"  But  now,  dear  tutor,  you  are  far  away ;  and  if  tones  of 
music  reach  you  from  the  distance,  you  will  not  ask  whether 
the  oaten-pipe  be  played  by  elf  or  brownie  ;  whether  the  wind 
be  blowing  through  the  rugged  crevice  of  an  unsightly  rock, 
or  touching  the  strings  of  a  golden  lyre.  You  will  only  know 
that  the  little  duncess  you  could  not  teach  is  faithfully  taught ; 
that  the  soulless  and  almost  senseless  child  has  the  soul  and  the 
sense  to  suffer  deeply,  appreciate  keenly,  and  love  adoringly. 

"  You  will  find  a  difference  of  some  years  between  the  dates 
of  these  papers.  Some  were  written  before  I  knew  you.  I 
enclose  them,  merely  that  you  may  see  how  much  I  have 
really  developed  in  mind  and  character  while  under  your 
daily  influence.  There  is  no  completeness  in  these  offsets 
from  my  thoughts ;  scarcely  any  consistency.  They  show 
evidences  of  continual  transition,  of  a  chaotic  state,  in  which 
the  elements  of  an  organization  are  at  work,  but  in  such 
strange  freaks  of  commotion,  that  the  wisest  philosophy  would 
be  puzzled  to  detect  a  positive  determination  toward  unity.  It 
is  not  because  they  are  harmonious  and  finished  compositions 
that  I  wish  you  to  read  them,  but  because  they  are  my  only 
means  of  revealing  to  you  my  soul,  just  as  it  really  lives  and 
acts  within  me. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  tutor,  having  long  enough  wearied 
your  patience,  I  have  only  to  say,  in  conclusion,  that  my 
heart  is  freer  for  these  confessions,  and  that  in  future  1  shall 
be  happier.  I  shall  live  in  the  delightful  consciousness  that 
to  one  being,  and  that  one  most  dear  and  good,  I  am  known 
in  part  as  I  desire  to  be  known.  Much  freer  and  nobler  do  I 
trust  my  soul  will  yet  become,  as  it  passes  on  in  its  immortal 


.'I 

424  PROSE   SELECTIONS. 

life.  All  that  you  have  taught  me  by  precept,  and  shown  me 
by  example,  will  abide  and  work  within  me.  The  results  of 
my  inward  efforts  and  experiences  cannot  be  known  to  you; 
for,  having  sufficiently  annoyed  you  by  my  present  revelations, 
I  retire  again  into  the  cloud  —  the  cloud  no  longer  gloomy 
and  dark,  but  golden  with  the  glow  of  imaginary,  if  not  real, 
sympathy.  It  would  be  impossible  for  me  ever  to  meet  you 
again,  should  circumstances  throw  us  in  the  same  neighbor 
hood.  I  could  never  speak  to  you,  or  look  at  you,  after  what 
has  now  passed.  It  is  in  spirit,  only,  I  would  be  known  to 
you ;  as  a  being  who  has  lived  in  your  presence,  but  who 
lives,  henceforth,  only  in  your  memory.  Farewell !  May  the 
Father  guide  and  keep  you  forever.  ESTHER  " 

Such  was  Esther's  revelation ;  and  as  she  said,  her  heart 
was  freer  and  happier  for  having  made  it.  It  seemed  to  have 
an  influence  upon  her  whole  conduct.  Her  sullenness,  what 
remained  of  it,  melted  away  ;  her  manners  became  more  soft 
and  winning ;  she  interested  herself  more  in  life,  and  in  the 
pursuits  of  her  fellow-beings ;  was,  if  not  more  lovely  in  char 
acter,  certainly  more  amiable  in  conduct. 

Her  life  flowed  on  in  equable  upper-tides,  and  in  strong 
under-currents  that  were  unseen.  She  pursued  her  mental 
discipline  with  new  vigor,  happy  only  in  the  acquisition  of 
new  truth  and  beauty,  and  in  the  hope  of  a  more  perfect  and 
harmonious  existence  in  the  future  and  undying  state. 

Her  imagination,  feeding  wholly  on  the  celestial  and  eter 
nal,  sublimated  her  mortal  being  to  something  finer  and  higher 
than  its  natural  condition.  "  You  might  almost  say  her  body 
thought,"  in  the  excess  of  her  intellectual  life.  This  mental 
activity  had  inevitably  its  effect  upon  her  health.  Her  grow 
ing  body  could  not  gain  strength  in  the  fever  of  so  much 
thought ;  yet  its  proportions  became  graceful,  though  slender, 
and  her  face,  if  a  shade  too  delicate  in  hue,  was  beautiful  for 
the  thoughtful  earnestness  that  pervaded  it.  Even  in  gayety, 
it  did  not  lose  its  pensive  softness,  and  the  most  joyous  ex 
citement  only  kindled  its  spiritual  radiation  into  a  deeper  and 
intenser  beauty. 

The  delicacy  of  her  constitution  did  not  alarm  her  parents, 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  425 

though  it  made  them  more  watchful  and  tender.  They 
attributed  it  to  her  immature  age,  and  a  too  rapid  growth  of 
intellect ;  which  was,  in  part,  the  truth,  though  there  were 
fires  burning  beneath  which  were  undetected. 

Above  a  year  had  elapsed  since  Mr.  Liddell's  departure. 
The  family  often  received  letters  from  him,  in  which  he  affec 
tionately  alluded  to  his  former  pupils,  and  always  with  peculiar 
tenderness  to  Esther ;  allusions  that  made  her  shrink,  and  yet 
which  filled  her  heart  with  joyous  throbbings.  "  He  wishes 
me  to  know  that  he  is  not  angry,  that  he  does  not  despise  me," 
she  thought.  "  But  yet,  I  almost  wish  I  had  not  done  what  I 
have ;  that  even  now  he  did  not  know  me ;  and  yet  that 
thought  would  kill  me  ! " 

Among  her  other  acquirements,  Esther  had  obtained  a  good 
knowledge  of  German,  having  studied  it  secretly  during  the 
time  that  her  brother  and  his  tutor  were  practising  it  in  their 
ordinary  conversation.  The  desire  to  listen  to  these  conver 
sations,  which  were  mostly  upon  literary  topics,  incited  her 
the  more  earnestly  to  the  study ;  and  she  had  made  rapid  pro 
gress  before  her  tutor  left.  This  he  discovered  by  some  trans 
lations  which  he  met  among  her  papers ;  and  he  occasionally 
sent  her  a  German  magazine,  in  testimony  of  this  discovery. 

In  one  of  these,  Esther  found  a  poem  which  she  knew  ema 
nated  from  him ;  a  poem  too  obviously  alluding  to  herself,  to 
be  misunderstood.  In  most  delicate,  yet  fervent  words,  it 
expressed  the  influence  which  her  spirit  exerted  over  his.  He 
likened  her  to  one  of  those  curious  little  music-boxes,  which 
are  passed  mutely  from  hand  to  hand,  and  admired  for  their 
outward  enamel,  but  from  which  one  who  knows  the  secret, 
can,  by  touching  a  hidden  spring,  cause  an  exquisite  bird  to 
fly  forth,  and  sing  with  most  surprising  melody.  Her  own 
kindness  had  revealed  to  him  that  secret.  Her  soul,  like  the 
bird,  had  sung  to  him,  and  its  music  could  never  die  from  his 
memory.  Such,  in  substance,  was  the  idea  of  the  poem ;  and 
it  was  enough  to  set  poor  Esther's  soul  on  fire  anew,  and  to 
seal  her  spiritual  destiny.  Now,  then,  she  might  dwell  in  an 
exaltation  of  joy ;  she  might  believe  herself  understood  by  the 
only  being  to  whom  she  desired  to  be  known,  by  the  only  one 
36* 


426  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

on  earth  she  could  ever  love.  She  should  never  see  him 
again.  No,  that  was  impossible  ;  that  was  not  to  be  desired ; 
that  would  break  the  magic  spell  of  her  joy.  But  she  could 
live  in  a  golden  atmosphere  of  spiritual  love ;  she  could  feel 
that  in  the  universe  of  souls  one  beautiful  one  had  encoun 
tered  and  recognized  her  own ;  and  this  was  all  she  asked. 
He  might  marry,  but  his  soul  could  never  wed ;  he  might  die, 
but  his  spirit  would  forever  live  for  her  in  progressive  good 
ness  and  beauty. 

Fed  by  the  fever  of  such  a  love,  "  the  central  flames,"  as 
Esther  termed  her  thoughts,  burned  with  destructive  force. 
While  her  spiritual  life  seemed  one  of  exhilaration  and 
strength,  her  physical  being  was  tending  to  a  fatal  prostration. 
Nothing  vital  in  her  system  seemed  affected,  but  there  was  a 
nervous  agitation  and  fever  perceptibly  undermining  her 
strength.  This  inward  fever  increased  daily  as  the  period 
approached  for  the  tutor's  return  from  Germany.  He  had 
announced  it  in  his  last  letter  as  to  take  place  in  the  month 
of  September ;  and  that  season  was  already  appearing  upon 
the  crimson  boughs  of  the  maple,  and  the  purple  clusters  of 
the  vine. 

"  He  will  soon  be  here,"  said  Esther,  in  her  own  thoughts, 
"  but  I  shall  be  away.  Will  he  sigh  once  at  the  thought  of 
my  absence  ?  Will  he  mourn  that  I  am  dead  ?  He  will  come 
in  his  beauty  and  goodness,  enriched  by  a  thousand  new 
acquisitions  from  the  intercourse  of  great  men,  and  the  impres 
sions  of  foreign  scenes.  How  eloquent  he  will  be  when  he 
speaks  of  Germany !  How  much  he  will  say  of  Goethe,  and 
Richter,  and  Schiller !  But  I  shall  not  hear  him.  Happy  for 
me  that  I  die,  for  never  could  I  meet  the  glance  of  his  soul- 
penetrating  eye !  Yes,  I  die  like  a  poor  stunted  aspen,  grow 
ing  on  the  bleak  open  hills.  I  am  shaken  to  death.  The 
winds  that  nerve  the  oak  have  rent  me  into  fragments.  The 
faint  music  I  have  made  has  not  answered  the  end  for  which 
I  was  called  into  being.  I  shall  live  on  in  some  nobler  con 
dition,  and  do  a  higher  work,  I  trust.  Oh,  my  tutor !  Could 
you  know  with  what  devotion  I  have  loved  you !  Could  you 
know  how  your  being  has  swayed  and  permeated  mine  !  But 
the  secret  goes  down  to  the  dust,  and  you  will  live  on  in  joy- 


PBOSE   SELECTIONS. 

ous  unconsciousness.  You  will  marry  the  good  and  happy 
Mary.  She  will  bless  you  with  her  calm  affection ;  you  will 
never  miss  poor  Esther." 

By  the  time  that  the  tutor  arrived,  Esther's  illness  had 
gained  such  a  hold  upon  her  frame,  that  she  was  confined  to 
her  chamber,  and  much  of  the  time  to  her  bed.  When  told 
that  he  had  returned,  that  he  was  already  in  the  house,  that 
he  desired  to  see  her,  she  was  overcome  by  her  emotions. 
She  fainted  repeatedly,  and  could  only  rest  easy  when  they 
assured  her  that  the  doors  of  her  chamber  were  locked,  and 
that  Mr.  Liddell  should  not  be  allowed  to  approach  them. 
He  sent  up  a  note,  entreating  her  to  see  him ;  assuring  her  of 
his  grief  at  her  illness,  of  his  earnest  attachment,  and  the 
extreme  sorrow  which  he  experienced  at  not  being  permitted 
to  express  his  feelings  to  her  in  person.  She  sent  a  reply  that 
she  was  deeply  grateful  for  his  kindness,  that  she  rejoiced 
at  his  return,  but  that  to  see  him  in  her  present  state  of  feel 
ing  would  be  a  mortal  stroke  ;  and  that  only  when  she  felt  her 
last  breath  approaching,  could  she  consent  to  his  admittance. 
She  begged  him  to  remain  under  the  same  roof  with  her  as 
long  as  her  life  continued,  and  closed  with  the  confession  that 
in  death  as  in  life,  he  was  to  her  the  dearest  and  best  object 
upon  earth. 

To  this  decision  Liddell  was  forced  to  submit,  though  it 
seemed  almost  impossible  to  repress  the  desire  he  felt  to  draw , 
the  fluttering  and  panting  dove  to  his  bosom,  and  make  her 
feel  how  tenderly  he  sympathized  with  her  sufferings,  and 
how  completely  he  understood  her  silent  and  shrinking  nature. 
Meanwhile  he  passed  the  hours  in  gazing  upon  a  beautiful 
portrait  of  Esther,  which  she  had  had  painted  a  short  time 
before,  with  the  request  that  it  might  be  hung  in  his  room  till 
after  her  death,  and  then  be  given  to  him  as  her  dying  legacy. 
She  was  taken  in  the  dress  of  a  nun,  with  one  hand  throwing 
back  the  white  veil  sufficiently  to  reveal  her  face,  and  the 
other  pressing  the  crucifix  to  her  bosom.  Never  was  saint 
more  beautiful,  never  vestal  more  holy,  than  this  sweet  image. 
Liddell  gazed  on  it  till  he  grew  to  think  it  a  real  saint,  in 
whose  presence  his  whole  nature  was  becoming  consecrated. 
He  could  not  sleep  at  night,  but  kept  a  soft  astral  burning 


428  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

beneath  the  picture,  that  he  might  still  gaze  and  gaze  with 
unwearied  devotion,  and  ever  deepening  love.  Until  now  he 
had  felt  toward  Esther  as  a  father  to  a  daughter ;  a  tender, 
protecting  friendship,  an  earnest  and  holy  sympathy,  which 
elevated  and  softened  his  nature.  But  when  he  gazed  on  this 
beautiful  face,  with  its  dark  and  dove-like  eyes  timidly  up 
turned  toward  heaven,  and  its  small  lips  half  parted  in  a 
serene  aspiration,  his  feeling  changed  to  almost  a  zealot's  devo 
tion  ;  to  a  reverence  and  a  tenderness  too  holy  to  be  spoken ; 
which  he  would  not  and  could  not  repress,  which  at  once 
swept  away  all  his  past  life,  and  lifted  him  into  a  new  and 
ideal  existence  —  a  sphere  whose  only  atmosphere  was  love, 
and  poetry,  and  serene  holiness. 

"  Must  she  die  ?  Is  there  no  hope  ?  "  asked  Liddell  of  the 
physician,  one  morning,  as  he  descended  from  her  apartment. 

"  The  result  is  uncertain,"  replied  the  doctor,  drawing  the 
tutor  into  the  parlor,  and  closing  the  door.  "  She  has  no 
organic  disease.  Her  symptoms  are  purely  nervous,  but  may 
still  form  a  fatal  crisis.  Everything  depends  upon  the  turn 
her  feelings  may  take.  She  imagines,  fully  believes,  that  she 
is  about  to  die.  When  the  moment  comes  for  this  fancy  to 
operate,  she  will  send  for  you.  Everything  depends  upon  the 
effect  of  your  interview.  You,  not  I,  are  the  one  to  save  her. 
If  you  know  her  heart,  and  all  that  has  caused  her  to  suffer, 
you  may  have  the  power  to  restore  it  to  tranquillity.  But 
though  by  a  happy  chance  this  effect  may  be  produced,  you 
will  not  be  responsible  for  a  different  and  fatal  result.  Excess 
of  any  emotion  at  that  moment  may  kill  her  —  joy  as  soon, 
yes,  sooner  than  sorrow.  Be  cautious,  therefore,  and  aim  to 
tranquillize  her  as  much  as  possible ;  and  be  prepared  at  any 
moment  to  receive  a  summons  from  her,  for  evidently  she 
believes  her  death  is  very  near  at  hand." 

Liddell  turned  away  in  the  extremest  agitation.  "  Good 
God  ! "  he  cried,  "  what  a  responsibility  rests  upon  me  !  If  I 
kill  her — and  I  shall,  poor  flower,  she  i§  so  fragile ! — then  what 
remains  for  me  but  eternal  regret  and  despair !  I  cannot  sur 
vive  such  a  stroke.  If  she  dies,  I,  too,  will  go  and  meet  her 
where  there  are  no  such  sorrows  to  disturb  us ! " 

This  day  wore  on  in  the  most  breathless  suspense.    All  day 


PROSE    SELECTIONS, 

Esther  lay  with  open,  brilliant  eyes,  gazing,  as  it  were,  into 
the  world  of  spirits.  Her  cheeks  glowed,  and  her  lips  were 
moving  with  inarticulate  prayer.  The  window  beside  her 
bed  looked  out  upon  the  western  sky.  The  sun  went  down 
in  one  of  those  gorgeous  cloud-piles  that  are  peculiar  to  our 
September  evenings.  In  the  heart  of  a  deep  purple  range 
that  stretched  from  north  to  south,  glowed  a  fiery  crimson, 
shooting  out  into  streaks  and  fringes  of  the  most  radiant  gold; 
the  most  beautiful  assemblage  of  shapes  and  colors  that  ever 
met  a  human  eye. 

Toward  this  scene  Esther's  face  was  turned.  Her  magnifi 
cent  hair,  which  lay  in  wavy  masses  upon  the  pillow,  caught 
a  richer  tint  from  the  sun-rays  that  shot  upon  its  shaded  red 
ness.  The  same  light  played  upon  her  veined  and  snowy 
temples,  and  nestled  in  the  vermil  hollows  of  her  youthful 
cheeks.  Her  eyes  outdazzled  the  brightness  of  the  sunset. 
No  words  can  describe  their  dilated  size  and  splendor.  One 
soft,  white  hand,  not  too  attenuated,  yet  wanting  the  dimpled 
plumpness  of  health,  was  half  buried  among  the  heavy  folds 
of  her  hair.  The  other  lay  tranquilly  upon  her  breast. 

"  Dear  mother,"  she  said,  in  a  sweet,  cheerful,  yet  slightly 
trembling  voice,  "  I  wish  now  to  see  Mr.  Liddell.  Leave  us 
alone  for  a  little  while." 

The  mother  arose,  trembling,  to  execute  this  wish.  She 
believed  the  fatal  hour  had  come,  at  last,  in  which  she  must 
resign  her  brightest  earthly  hope.  She  tottered  into  the 
tutor's  room,  and  speechlessly  seizing  his  hand,  pointed  to 
Esther's  chamber.  He  understood  her;  and  pausing  one 
moment,  to  summon  up  strength  for  the  trial,  he  proceeded 
noiselessly  to  the  bedside  of  the  invalid.  Good  heavens ! 
what  a  picture  of  beauty  met  him !  His  strength  gave  way  at 
once.  Tears,  rapid  and  burning,  streamed  from  his  eyes  in 
floods  that  could  not  be  checked.  They  so  blinded  him  that 
he  could  not  see  the  calm  smile  with  which  she  greeted  him. 
She  took  his  hand  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

"  I  could  not  help  loving  you,"  she  said ;  "  and  just  in  pro 
portion  as  I  loved,  I  shrank  into  myself  in  terror.  To  you  I 
am  but  a  simple  and  romantic  child,  to  whom  nature  gave  con 
flicting  elements  of  being.  I  die  a  child ;  and  the  waves  of 


430  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

your  memory  will  soon  close  over  me.  Bat  you  are  to  me  a 
ruling  genius,  every  glance  of  whose  eye,  and  echo  of  whose 
thought,  is  my  imperative  law.  Do  not  think  me  foolish  for 
this.  'T  is  a  necessity  laid  upon  me  ;  and  in  death  as  in  life 
I  cannot  resist  it.  You  weep  for  me  in  pity ;  but  I  am  too 
happy  to  need  tears.  Do  not  weep,  dear  tutor.  Sit  down 
and  smile  upon  me,  and  let  me  die  gazing  into  your  eyes." 

"It  is  I,  sweet  spirit,  who  am  misunderstood,"  he  replied, 
seating  himself  so  that  he  could  throw  his  arm  around  her, 
and  with  the  other  hand  drawing  hers  to  his  bosom.  "  You 
do  not  love  me,  Esther ;  you  fear  me.  It  is  I,  only,  who  love 
truly.  It  is  I,  dear  child,  whose  heart  is  breaking  with  vain 
yearnings.  You  will  not  repose  in  my  love.  You  shrink 
from  me  as  though  I  were  not  good ;  as  though  unfit  for  your 
pure  trust.  Esther,  sweetest,  dearest,  purest !  Will  you  die 
in  this  cruel  way,  without  one  little  word  or  glance  to  say  you 
believe  in  my  love ;  that  you  confide  in  my  eternal  faith  ? 
Once,  it  is  true,  I  did  not  know  you  —  I  was  unjust  to  you ; 
—  but,  from  the  hour  that  you  so  generously  let  me  into  your 
soul,  I  have  loved  you,  and  you  only.  Now  all  my  being 
dwells  in  yours.,  The  future  is  nothing  except  as  it  is  filled 
with  thoughts  of  you.  O  Esther,  one  word,  one  look,  to  say 
you  believe  me  ! " 

While  he  spoke,  her  burning  eyes  were  gazing  into  his  soul. 
Her  breath  grew  shorter  and  more  difficult.  Her  bosom 
heaved,  and  big  drops  of  sweat  started  out  upon  her  forehead. 
Still  she  did  not  turn  away  her  eyes.  Liddell  kissed  her  lips 
in  a  passion  of  love  and  despair.  The  warmth  of  his  caresses 
seemed  to  renew  her  strength.  "  Again  !  again  ! "  she  said. 
"O,  there  is  life  in  these — yes,  more — there  is  love!"  More 
closely  the  tutor  folded  her  to  his  heart ;  more  warmly,  more 
passionately,  he  covered  her  lips,  and  cheeks,  and  bosom,  with 
his  kisses.  It  was  the  passion  of  agonized  and  intoxicating 
love;  and  through  the  veins  of  the  exhausted  invalid  it 
coursed  like  an  elixir  of  fire.  "  Raise  me,"  she  said.  "Raise 
me  in  your  arms,  and  let  me  die  upon  your  good  and  noble 
heart.  O,  yes,  I  trust  in  you  now !  The  veil  is  rent  asunder 
forever,  and  I  look  in  upon  your  love,  and  feel  that  I  am 
fully  repaid  for  all  that  I  have  bestowed.  In  any  other  hour 
I  could  not  have  borne  this  excess  of  joy." 

The  tutor  supported  her  in  his  arms,  and  they  remained 
thus  for  a  long  while,  gazing  silently  into  each  other's  eyes. 
At  length,  a  repose  like  sleep  seemed  settling  upon  Esther's 
face.  "  Is  it  death  ?"  asked  the  tutor,  with  a  shudder.  "  O 


PROSE    SELECTIONS.  431 

Heaven,  spare  her!"  Her  eyes  finally  closed.  Her  lips 
parted.  Soft  breathings,  like  those  of  a  babe,  so  soft  as  to  be 
inaudible,  and  almost  imperceptible,  just  moved  the  silken  lock 
that  fell  upon  her  cheek.  The  physician  entered  ;  and,  when 
he  saw  the  state  in  which  she  lay,  his  eye  brightened,  and  a 
smile  of  hope  played  upon  his  lip.  The  mother,  who  had 
stolen  for  a  moment  to  the  door,  caught  this  look  of  encour 
agement,  and  hastened  away  to  weep  tears  of  sweet  relief. 
The  tutor  sat  with  an  inflexible  countenance,  repressing,  by 
painful  efforts,  the  violent  motion  of  his  chest,  which  shook 
like  an  earthquake  beneath  the  sleeper's  head. 

For  hours  he  sustained  this  position,  and  continued  this 
effort.  The  twilight  deepened  into  gloom.  The  stars  shone 
out,  awful  and  bright,  as  though  they  knew  the  mystery  of 
all  destiny,  and  the  end  of  all  fate.  The  moon  came  up  tow 
ard  midnight,  and  tipped  the  western  woods  with  light ;  that 
solemn  light,  so  much  more  impressive  than  the  radiance  she 
pours  down  from  her  golden  horn  when  full.  The  crickets, 
with  a  softened  chirp,  filled  the  night  with  their  harmonies. 

"Will  not  this  sleep  exhaust  her?"  asked  Liddell  of  the 
doctor,  in  a  low,  anxious  whisper.  The  doctor  shook  his  head. 
"  'T  is  too  soft  and  quiet  for  that.  It  lies  upon  her  breast  like 
down." 

And  so  she  slept  on  through  the  night,  in  that  breathless 
silence.  The  father,  mother,  and  doctor,  sat  round  like  spec 
tres  in  the  gloom,  sleepless,  silent,  and  deep  in  anxious  thought. 
The  brothers  and  little  Clara  had  fallen  asleep  upon  the  sofas 
and  divans  in  the  parlor,  too  much  frightened  to  retire  to  their 
chambers,  and  yet  too  young  and  unused  to  watching  to  sup 
port  the  fatigue  of  suspense.  Toward  morning,  however,  the 
physician  persuaded  the  family  to  retire,  all  but  himself  and 
the  mother,  who  withdrew  outside  of  the  door,  but  not  too  far 
to  hear  the  slightest  movement  of  the  sleeper.  "  She  must  be 
alone  with  Mr.  Liddell  when  she  awakes,"  the  doctor  said,  in 
reply  to  the  mother's  desire  to  linger  at  her  side.  "  She  is  too 
weak  now  to  bear  the  slightest  disturbance." 

How  long  those  dawning  hours  appeared  !  From  the  first 
distant  crowing  of  the  cock  till  the  tint  of  sunrise  on  the  west 
ern  clouds,  seemed  like  the  passage  of  an  age.  Yet  Liddell 
gave  no  token  of  weariness.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  all  sense 
of  fatigue  in  the  intensity  of  his  solicitude.  His  arm  still  sur 
rounded  her,  her  hand  still  rested  softly  in  his.  Now  the 
light,  feathery  clouds  were  changing  from  rose  to  amber,  and 
gradually  deepening  into  gold.  The  birds  awoke,  and  filled 
the  heavens  with  their  music.  A  smile,  like  the  faintest  rip- 


432  PROSE    SELECTIONS. 

pie  of  the  air  upon  a  wave,  passed  over  Esther's  pallid  face. 
She  breathed  a  low  sigh,  and  slowly  opened  her  languid  but 
still  brilliant  eyes.  She  saw  the  tutor,  but  no  surprise  or 
emotion  was  visible  in  her  face.  She  seemed  too  weak  to  be 
even  capable  of  any  feeling.  Liddell  gently  relinquished  her 
hand,  and  touched  her  lips  with  a  weak  cordial  which  the  phy 
sician  had  prepared.  She  swallowed  it,  and  moved  her  head 
slightly,  as  though  weary  of  her  position.  The  physician 
approached,  and  assisted  Liddell  to  remove  her  carefully  to 
the  pillow.  She  closed  her  eyes  from  excessive  weakness,  but 
did  not  sleep.  Liddell  still  kept  his  watch,  and  administered 
the  cordial. 

In  this  manner,  without  much  change,  the  morning  wore 
away.  Yet  in  all  hearts  there  was  a  deep  and  growing  hope. 
The  crisis  had  evidently  passed,  and  Esther  had  escaped  the 
peril.  Such  gratitude  and  such  joy  find  not  their  occasions 
often  in  this  mortal  life. 

Not  till  toward  night  did  Esther  speak.  It  was  to  her 
mother,  who  was  bending  over  her.  "  I  have  been  thinking 
whether  this  be  heaven,"  she  said;  "for  surely  some  joy, 
beyond  those  of  mortal  life,  surrounds  and  fills  me." 

"  'T  is  the  joy  of  returning  health,  my  love,"  said  the 
mother,  smiling  through  her  grateful  tears. 

"  'T.is  something  sweeter  and  deeper  than  that.  It  is  the 
atmosphere  of  a  pure  and  happy  love.  Is  there  not  some 
spirit  here  that  loves  me  still,  even  as  I  have  dreamed  ?  " 

Liddell  took  her  .hand.  "  Yes,  Esther,  the  faithful  spirit 
that  will  love  you  forever,"  he  cried. 

She  pressed  his  hand.  "  Did  you  love  me  only  ?  she  asked, 
earnestly. 

"  You  only ;  believe  me,  dearest ! "  he  exclaimed,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"  And  our  destinies  will  never  be  parted  ?  "  she  continued. 

"  Never !     Life,  death,  eternity  cannot  separate  us  ! " 

"  Then  the  cloud  from  my  spirit  has  passed  forever.  I 
live  as  others  live,  in  the  open  world,  with  an  open  heart.  I 
have  feared  and  doubted  in  all  the  past,  but  in  all  the  future 
I  will  only  love  and  trust." 

Esther's  life  was  true  to  her  promise.  As  the  cherished 
wife  of  the  man  she  loved,  her  heart  expanded  like  a  flower 
in  the  sunshine.  Her  timidity  and  silence  toward  the  world 
could  not  be  overcome ;  nor  did  her  tutor  wish  it.  It  was 
enough  for  him  that  he  could  look  into  the  deepest  core  of  the 
sweet  flower,  and  inhale  its  richest  fragrance.  All  the  more 
precious  was  the  music -box  whose  bird  sang  only  for  him. 


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M45A14  Selections 

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1849 


